


let's head for the stars

by lavenderseaslug



Category: Holby City
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Alternate Universe - Reality Show, Extramarital Affairs, F/F, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Mothers and Daughters, Pillow Talk, Prompt Fic, Tumblr Prompt, Unresolved Sexual Tension, five times fic, unapologetic domesticity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2018-10-05 17:26:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 176,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10313342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderseaslug/pseuds/lavenderseaslug
Summary: Hey, it's a place for tumblr fic prompts, how exciting! Bernie and Serena, bein' best friends, together forever, the fun never ends.





	1. see the sunlight, we ain't stopping

**Author's Note:**

> an anon asked for:  
> We never got to see how Bernie and Serena officially announced their relationship to their colleagues. Doesn't have to be a big announcement, just how it became official news instead of a secret that anyone knew anyway. I'd like to see in particular how Ric and Hansen get to know of it. I'd prefer if you forgot the current storyline since Elinor's death, but I'll leave that to you. Thanks!!
> 
> Oh boy friend. I watch this show in snippets and bits and so I do not know any characters besides Bernie and Serena, really, so I hope this satisfies.

The first day _after_ (after Kiev, after their reconciliation, after a long talk that went into the early morning hours, after falling asleep together on the sofa, after they wake up together for the first time, with matching cricks in their necks) they walk into the hospital together. Bernie drives them into work, is still trying to make up for leaving in any way she can.

She reaches for Serena’s hand, and Serena pulls away. She isn’t ready for this, not yet. “It only takes one monkey for the jungle drums to start beating ‘round here,” she says, and Bernie agrees. “Let’s enjoy the peace while we can.”

Bernie lets it go, she remembers how gossip works at Holby, remembers when Alex came.

\- - -

There’s paperwork to fill out, because when _isn’t_ there paperwork. Of course there’s paperwork. They never tell you in medical school just how much paperwork there is.

The form is innocuous enough. Serena hands it to Bernie to fill out, more payment for Kiev. So it’s in Bernie Wolfe’s handwriting, bold and strong, that the announcement of her romantic relationship with Serena Campbell is written.

She brings it to Hanssen’s office - she also has to tell him she won’t be going back to Kiev after all. She rather thinks he’s already guessed, he always has the air of a twinkly-eyed omniscient about him.

He’s at his desk, looks at her over the rim of his glasses as he takes the form from her. “You’ve come a long way from begrudging co-leads of AAU,” he says, setting the paper down in front of him, folding his hands together and resting them on the desk.

“Yes,” Bernie says, because she doesn’t know what else to say, because it’s true, because she can’t imagine her life any other way, Kiev cock-up and all.

“I trust no domestic disagreements will find their way into the hospital?” he asks, and Bernie thinks she sees that twinkle again. She thinks of the weeks after she first kissed Serena, when they avoided each other and worked opposite shifts, but never to the detriment of AAU. The work comes first, she thinks, and almost says it out loud, but doesn’t.

“No more than usual, sir,” she opts for instead, deciding to be a little cheeky - she thinks Hanssen likes it when she shows a bit of fire, and she’s rewarded with the smallest of smiles. It’s hard to deny that the interpersonal relationships of the entire staff of Holby don’t come into play on a regular basis.

“The work comes first,” he says, tenting his fingers, shifting papers on his desk, and Bernie starts at hearing her own thoughts echoed aloud. He looks down at the form once more. “I trust there’ll be no more running off?” His concern for Serena is evident, and Bernie thinks, not for the first time, that she’ll have to do more than just prove herself to Serena, that there’s a whole staff of people who she hurt by leaving.

“Not unless I’m told to go,” she assures him, fighting the urge to offer a salute. He raises an eyebrow, and Bernie feels that’s as good as a dismissal, and beats a hasty exit, back to her floor, her ward, her co-lead.

\- - -

Serena invites Bernie over for a second night in a row, with the caveat that they have more talking to do, and Bernie, though the idea of a sustained conversation about her feelings gives her heart palpitations, agrees. She’s been without Serena’s company for so long that just to be asked into the warm embrace of her presence feels like such a privilege.

It’s make-your-own-sandwich night, with sliced meats and cheeses and condiments all arrayed on the table. The idea of options is ever-present, though Jason only ever makes a ham and swiss, and Serena usually opts for salami and provolone. But there are meats and cheeses enough, so Bernie puts together a cheddar and ham, slops some mustard onto the bread as well. Jason neatly cuts his sandwiches into triangles, and excuses himself to the living room. Bernie and Serena stay in the kitchen, stay together. They’ve kept a close orbit since Bernie returned - she rather thinks Serena is the sun, while she’s some sort of distant moon, just feeding off her light.

“Good day?” Serena asks around a mouthful of food, and Bernie likes that manners have been dispensed with. They spent a good deal of the day in separate theatres, running around after their patients with not much more than a few spare moments for a glance across the floor. But Bernie is always aware of Serena’s location, attuned to her presence, she thinks. She wonders if it’s an army thing, knowing where your team is at all times. She likes that Serena is her team now, her steadfast compatriot.

“It was,” Bernie says, and feels mustard slide against her cheek. Before she can wipe it away, Serena’s hand has reached out, her thumb pressing into the yellow goo, wiping it from Bernie’s smooth cheek. Then Serena sticks her thumb in her mouth, licks the mustard off, the muscles in her jaw tensing, and Bernie’s jaw goes slack.

They kissed yesterday, in their office, for a long while. Far longer than would be decent on any other day at work. And then they took themselves to Serena’s home, with Jason in tow, and talked into the early morning hours. Bernie had sleepily kissed Serena, so glad to be so close to her dear face, so glad to be forgiven. And that’s all they’ve done, that’s all they’ve had time for.

So Bernie takes advantage of the quiet kitchen, of the cover of Countdown coming from the living room, and leans across the corner of the table, and kisses Serena squarely on the mouth, the taste of mustard still on her tongue. She’s startled a noise out of Serena, thinks she’ll never tire of learning what sort of noises this woman can make, and then Serena’s pulling Bernie in, the wooden table digging into both their stomachs, neither one mindful of the pain.

Serena sits back, eventually, her face pink and happy, her mouth full and well-kissed, her hair mussed. _She likes it_ , Bernie thinks, and feels so lucky that her best friend in all the world should also be the woman who likes to pull on Bernie’s hair while her tongue is in Bernie’s mouth, who likes to let her hands drift suggestively across Bernie’s chest, whose fingers toy with hem of Bernie’s shirt.

“I think - I think I’m full,” Bernie says, and is cautious, because she doesn’t know if Serena will take this opportunity to start some sort of conversation in which all the ways in which Bernie will make up for her absence will be given in alphabetical list form, or if this kiss was the promise of something more.

Serena starts clearing the plates, wrapping up the food with careful, practiced gestures. The silence is thick, heavy, with want, with promise, with anticipation. Bernie leans against the counter, watches Serena put everything in its place, watches her clean her home, her life, wonders if she’ll be something Serena cleans up too, hopes that she is.

Serena stands in front of Bernie, when it’s all done, puts her hands on either side of the countertop, fencing Bernie in. Their heights are almost matched, but Serena still has to tilt her head up ever so slightly to touch Bernie’s lips. But she leans forward, leans into Bernie, warm and soft, and so forgiving that Bernie’s heart bursts. And she kisses Serena back, trying to work in how sorry she is, how much she cares for Serena, how much she feels. She sets her hands on Serena’s hips, holds their hips together, lets her fingers dig ever so slightly into the soft flesh at Serena's waist, and Serena mewls into her mouth.

There’s still so much new territory for them both to explore, Bernie thinks, and isn’t afraid of what she doesn’t know. They kiss and kiss and kiss, and Bernie doesn’t think of anything else but Serena, can’t think of anything else, doesn’t want to think of anything else.

And then Jason comes into the kitchen, putting an unexpected damper on everything. Bernie’s face flushes, Serena’s too, though she schools her features more quickly than Bernie manages to. “Tea time, is it?” she asks, her voice a little too high, a little too breathy.

“I know you kiss,” is all Jason says, moving around them to get mugs from the cupboard. “You didn’t forget I was the one who locked you in, yesterday, did you?” He knows Serena isn’t mad about it, knows he’s gotten away with something, and is enjoying that fact.

Bernie’s face is still brilliantly red, she can feel it. She wonders if this is what it would have felt like if Cam or Charlotte had ever walked in on her while she was having sex with Marcus, is thankful she’s never had that experience before, was better about locking doors and knowing when her children were moving about. But she feels an intensity to her passion with Serena that she never felt with Marcus, thinks she’s more likely to get carried away now.

Serena throws Bernie a knowing look, pulls out the tea leaves from their drawer, and sets about making three cups of tea, as though she does this every night, as though she’s expecting to make three cups of tea for the rest of her life, and Bernie finds she doesn’t mind.

\- - -

Serena’s admonishment that they should try to enjoy the peace holds through the week. They keep their hands to themselves at work, they don’t stare at each other any more than they did before Bernie left, they don’t close the blinds when they’re in their office with the door closed.

Serena suggests they visit Albie’s, knows Bernie hasn’t been there since before Kiev. Bernie flushes, thinking of long looks over wine glasses, of nights ending with no sense of personal space, just shoulders bumping and thighs touching, and then going home alone. She thinks that won’t be a problem now. Serena’s had her over every night this week, has decided that while Bernie isn’t forgiven completely or given a clean slate, she won’t deprive herself of the company of the woman she loves while they try to sort out the details of it all. Bernie appreciates the practicality of this mindset, even while she knows that she has quite a bit of penance to do.

She starts her penitence tour by buying a round of drinks, for Serena, for Morven, for Dom, for Ric, for Fletch. They offer her a mock toast, a raise of their glasses and she offers a mock bow in return, the prodigal daughter returned. Bernie isn’t quite sure who she is tonight, if she’s the co-lead of AAU, if she’s Serena’s friend or if she’s the woman who...who more than likes Serena. So she decides to follow Serena’s lead, something Serena has suggested would do Bernie favors if she tried to do it more.

She brings them to the corner, to the comfortable chairs, tucked away from the bustling bar. She sits close to Bernie, very close, lets her hand rest on Bernie’s knee. So she’s at least Serena’s friend, tonight. Serena is letting her coworkers know that Bernie is to be given some leniency. Then Serena’s hand moves up Bernie’s thigh, and Bernie thinks that Serena has just decided to go full bore. She takes a breath, and lets her hand rest on top of Serena’s, gives her a small squeeze, reassurance. She’s here, she’s not leaving, she’s committed to this, in whatever form it comes.

Ric sidles over, pint glass in hand. He seats himself ungraciously in the chair opposite them, and takes in their joined hands, the way Serena is looking at Bernie, the way Bernie is looking back. He clears his throat and Bernie startles, almost retracts her hand, but stills the reflex. She feels Serena soften next to her, the gesture hasn’t gone unnoticed. Serena is nervous, too.

“How, ah, how’s this….” he trails off, and Serena smirks, leans into Bernie’s side a little more, and Bernie gets the sense that even with any anxiety she might feel, Serena is more than happy to have a little fun with Ric Griffin.

“You remember that night, with Françoise?” Bernie ducks her head because she thinks she will never forget that day, teasing Ric, laughing with Serena, a private joke for just them, when they were all smiles and happiness and she’d never left. Ric looks embarrassed, and Bernie thinks that Serena’s scored a point.

“Well, I believe I told you something then.” Bernie lets her thumb stroke against the back of Serena’s hand, she hasn’t heard this story. “You asked if there was anyone in my life.” She offers a small smile to Bernie, a nudge of the shoulder. “Don’t let this scare you back to the snows,” Serena says, and Bernie takes it as it’s meant, both a joke and a warning. She says nothing, just moves infinitesimally closer to Serena, barely any space between them at all.

“You said nothing had really happened,” Ric says, and Serena shrugs. Bernie feels the movement, feels every single breath coming from Serena, feels as if Albie’s has shrunk just to them.

“And between then and now, you doubt my abilities to make something ‘happen’?” Serena’s eyebrow is arched, and Bernie knows that she’s warmed to the game now. Her friendship with Ric is so old, so broken in. They thrive off teasing and innocuous flirting and jokes at the other’s expense.

Ric fumbles over his words, doesn’t know how to answer Serena without saying something inappropriate and Bernie can’t hold it in any longer, chuckles her raspy chuckle, hoarse from smoking. Serena looks at her affectionately, and Bernie’s heart nearly bursts with it all.

“She’s got a way about her, don’t you think?” Bernie asks Ric, and Serena laughs then, too, happiest when she and Bernie are working together, towards whatever goal. And then Fletch calls Ric over and he can hardly scramble out of the chair fast enough. Serena turns her hand over, squeezes Bernie’s tight, lets their fingers interlock, holds her close, and Bernie is happy enough to be kept, happy enough to share this space with this woman, happy enough to never let go.

\- - -

They don’t have to tell people, not really. Fletch was never really one for keeping his mouth shut, never really one for secrets. He tells Raf, he tells Lou, then all the nurses know. And then it gets to the other wards. Bernie has heard of the rumors and the gossip that flew around after she left, knows Serena is still harboring hurt over begging Bernie to stay in front of her staff. So Bernie also lets it be known that if anyone should want to say anything to Ms. Campbell about her relationship status, they have a certain former army medic to contend with first.

She doesn’t know if the threat actually scares anyone, or if it’s a matter that no one really cares what the women in their mid-fifties get up to in their spare time. There are younger, hotter romances blossoming, if the grapevine is to be believed, so perhaps she and Serena are simply old news.

In the end, all that matters is that she gets to go home with Serena most nights, that the only nights when she’s not welcome are the nights when Serena has promised Jason for time with just the two of them. They don’t happen often, Jason is usually more than happy to have a third person in their home, but Bernie thinks sometimes he likes to be reminded that he holds a certain cache with Serena, and she certainly understands that. To know that you hold status in the eyes of Serena Campbell is a heady feeling, and one she doesn’t think she’ll ever quite get used to.

On the nights she does come over, they eat dinner, they talk about their days, they watch quiz shows and documentaries and Bernie often falls asleep with her head on Serena’s shoulder. And then they go upstairs, holding hands, together and close. Serena splays out on the bed, a foot or her hand just touching Bernie, but by morning, they’ve found each other, always pulled towards each other, a gravity that cannot be denied.

And then they go downstairs, and Serena gets three mugs out of the cupboard, like she’s done it all her life, like she plans to do it forever, and Bernie can only smile.

  



	2. and the world is spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for:  
>  _bernie introduces serena to her parents?_
> 
> i almost made this into the saddest fic ever then thought that's maybe not what you wanted, so this is what happened instead! hope you like it, and thank you for the [prompt](http://belligerently.tumblr.com/ask).

“My parents are coming to town.” Bernie drops this nugget of information on a quiet Saturday on AAU, when they’re both at work. Serena is catching up on admin and Bernie has been staring at her phone for the last hour. Normally Serena would chastise Bernie for woolgathering, but she’s been too preoccupied with forms and signing her name and putting things into order to really pay much attention to Bernie.

She’d heard comments, when she and Bernie had gotten together, officially, that it would just be a constant lovefest on AAU, that there’d be no getting any work done now, that “if AAU’s a rockin’, don’t come a-knockin’,” which was a particularly stupid turn of phrase to her mind. Since then, it’d been Serena’s personal mission to make sure that her relationship never made its way into the walls of the hospital. Bernie sometimes views this as a personal challenge, tries to make Serena drop down her guard, tries to make her blush while they’re across from each other in surgery. Serena is glad she’s a naturally tactile person, that people know her as someone who is just as likely to reach out to rub someone’s arm or back as anything else because even with her personal rule, she doesn’t know that she could go a full shift without some kind of physical contact with Bernie. 

She laughs at herself about it, at the ice queen of AAU who lectures people endlessly about workplace romances. But how was she to know that at this stage in the game, she’d find the love of her life, and it would end up being her co-lead and best friend. She wasn’t to know, no one would’ve guessed it (though Cameron still maintains that he assumed from the very start). 

“Mmm?” she asks, barely looking up from the papers in front of her, the end of her pen resting against her lip. She taps it every so slightly and flicks her eyes up to Bernie, who is still staring down at her phone.

“My parents,” Bernie says, and then meets Serena’s gaze with a wild sort of look on her face.

“Yes, dear, what about them?” Serena lets endearments slip out all the time, that is her one failing. But how can she be induced to curb the habit when she loves the look on Bernie’s face at the sound of them, gently softening before she schools her features back into that of a professional trauma surgeon. 

“They are coming to Holby, for a visit.” Her face still has that slightly panicked look that she gets sometimes, when things feel a bit too much for her. Serena wishes she could ease that expression, stop it from ever appearing, wants Bernie to know that there’s nothing they really need to fear, so long as they are working together. It’s quite a sappy thing, she knows, but she feels it’s true all the same.

“And?” Serena has heard stories about Bernie’s parents, about Crawford and Winifred Wolfe, about Bernie’s unbearably posh upbringing that she’s eschewed as much as possible. At first, Serena was taken aback to learn that Bernie came from wealth, but then decided it fit, as who but an excessively fancy person would give their daughter the name Berenice Griselda.

“They’re…” Bernie flails about a little helplessly. Serena feels grateful she doesn’t have to worry about introducing Bernie to her mother, doesn’t know what Adrienne would have made of this whole situation. She does think, though, that Adrienne would have been delighted to pick Bernie’s brain about any number of things. Serena’s heart clenches, thinking about the two of them having tea together. She thinks it would’ve hurt, she would’ve felt on the outside of them, but that Bernie and Adrienne could’ve been thick as thieves. It was always easier for Adrienne to be kind to people she wasn’t related to. 

“They’re coming. They can stay with us at mine - ours,” she corrects, because it’s still new, it’s only been a few weeks, “There’s room, Jason can stay with Alan, or stay with us, whichever he prefers. I’ll make oysters and escargot and rack of lamb with roasted potatoes or whatever else your parents would like.” Serena’s mind has already moved back to her work. She doesn’t see the problem with Bernie’s parents coming, feels she’s already found the solution and is ready to move on to other things.

“You’re not - you’re not nervous about this?” Bernie, it seems, has decided that there’s a more pressing issue than her parents coming now, and that it’s Serena’s response to her parents coming.

“Bernie, I am in my fifties. I have unexpectedly fallen in love with a particularly stubborn and ridiculous trauma surgeon, and am living with a woman for the first time since university. I have a nephew who is lovely and challenging and has helped me perfect my recipe for shepherd’s pie through his exacting standards. I co-run a ward with the aforementioned surgeon, who often rattles my cage and eats my lunch when she’s forgotten her own. I have fought enough battles that I’ve earned the right to my ward and made my position at the hospital how I want it to be, and I’m trusted to run it how I see fit. I rather feel that I’m beyond caring what two people think of me, regardless of the fact that their last name is Wolfe.” Serena’s hands are folded in front of her and she’s looking Bernie straight in the face, her features schooled and professional as though she were back talking to the board. 

Bernie, never prone to long speeches uninterrupted by hems and haws, just looks back at Serena, slightly poleaxed. “I’ll let them know they can stay with us,” she says. “Only…”

“Only what, Bernie? I would like to get this finished before five o’clock so we can get home at a reasonable hour.” Serena smiles, there’s no real bite to her words. The paperwork is by no means an emergency, she just likes to get it done in the quiet, when she can sit across from Bernie and enjoy her company, enjoy her presence. 

“I haven’t exactly told them. About us.” Bernie’s looking down again, her fringe flopping in her eyes and Serena desperately wants to brush it from her face.

“What part?” Serena’s voice has an edge to it now. She understands the pain associated with being honest one’s parents, at least empirically, but she also knows that she’s not one to hide what she feels, not when she’s so sure of it.

“All of it?” She tries to smile, tries to play it off like it’s another one of her classic blunders that she and Serena can sort out together. 

“Do they know you like women?” Serena stands, comes around the desk to pull one of the visitor’s chairs close to the edge on Bernie’s desk. 

“I, ah, don’t think they’d be surprised to learn it, but they don’t exactly - I’ve never explicitly said anything.” Her hands are twisting in her lap and Serena reaches out to still them, resting her fingers gently on Bernie’s arm, her thumb gently stroking the soft skin of Bernie’s wrist. 

“Well. I expect they’ll figure it out soon enough. Unless you want us to just pretend we’re nothing more than roommates?” Serena feels suddenly nervous, suddenly scared. She thinks she will pretend, if that’s what Bernie wants. She will go back to that time when she quashed down her feelings for this woman, if that’s what Bernie needs, just for this visit. 

“No. Serena, no.” She grabs Serena’s hands, holds them tight in her own. Serena closes her eyes at the feel of Bernie’s warm palms, never tires of any intimacy Bernie willingly bestows. “I don’t want to hide this.” Serena thinks Bernie still feels like she’s making up for Kiev, thinks she’ll never feel as if they’re even for that. She’s always trying to prove to Serena that she’s changed, never realizing that the fact that she’s still here is proof enough.

“You’ll pick them up from the train, we’ll meet at a restaurant - that Italian one, maybe. We could use an extensive wine list on our side. And then we’ll all go back to our house. Or they can go to a hotel, if they take it badly. Or back to the train station, for all I care.” Serena gives Bernie’s hands a quick squeeze. “Now I’m going to finish that stack of papers, and you are going to do something besides moon at your phone, and then we’ll go home and split a bottle of Shiraz.” She offers a pat to Bernie’s knee as she stands, pushes the chair back against the wall and seats herself behind her desk once more, looking up at Bernie to catch the fond expression on her face. It’s so heart-stoppingly familiar and loving that Serena’s breath catches, and she doesn’t think she’ll ever get over this woman.

\- - -

Bernie doesn’t quite stop being nervous, so Serena offers constant reminders that it doesn’t matter what happens, how it goes. That she’ll be here on the other side. “I know about being a disappointment to one’s parents,” she says, “and I hardly think you’ll be a disappointment, not at this stage. You’ve given them grandchildren, for heaven’s sake!” she adds, as an attempt at levity. Bernie offers only the tight smile, the one she does to try to reassure people that everything is fine, while actually just further proving that the opposite is true.

Bernie takes the whole weekend of their visit off, Serena more than happy to cover shifts and rearrange schedules to make it happen. She calls the restaurant, makes a reservation for four people. Jason decides to go to Alan’s, and Serena is secretly relieved, thinks it’s one less thing for the Wolfes to have to adjust to. (She also wonders to herself if the plural of Wolfe is Wolves, and chuckles to herself, knows if she said it aloud, she’d only earn an eyeroll from Bernie and a pained smile from Morven). 

She texts Serena the whole day of her parents arrival, is rattling around their house with nothing to keep her mind of their impending visit, and Serena privately wonders what sort of mess she’s made in the garage as a way to keep her hands busy. She has projects set up in there, things she can tinker with and dirty her hands with when she needs to escape from Jason and Serena, and Serena is more than happy to let her use the garage space for that.

When it’s finally time for Bernie to pick up her parents, Serena’s phone stops buzzing. There are no updates as to location or traffic or anything, and Serena, while thankful for the relief, is also now curious and feeling slightly anxious herself. For the front she puts up, she does feel a little apprehensive, wants to be approved of. Edward’s parents loved her, were won over from their very first meeting. Serena has never lacked for charm, that much she knows.

“Parents coming, see you soon,” Bernie texts, after a bit, and that’s Serena’s cue to make her exit from AAU. She bids goodnight to her team, with instructions to page her if anything comes up, and to leave Ms. Wolfe alone. Satisfied, she leaves, heads to her car, and makes her way to the restaurant, pulls her car in next to Bernie’s. 

She smooths down her shirt, bought new for today. She touches up her lippy, finds herself wishing for Jason’s frank appraisal of her appearance, if only to make her feel slightly normal before heading into this encounter. 

Serena heads into the restaurant, a warm smile pasted on her face, and scans the room for the shock of blonde hair that will signify Bernie Wolfe. She realizes she’s never seen pictures of Bernie’s parents, have no idea what they’ll look like, only that their names are Crawford and Winifred, and that they are rather more than normally concerned with their place in society and What People Think.

She sees a hand waving, sees that it’s attached to Bernie - a Bernie Serena didn’t quite expect. Her hair is tamed, more like it was when they first met. She’s got on black trousers, not her skinny jeans, and a nice blouse, more like one Serena would wear. She doesn’t let her smile falter, doesn’t let this affect her confidence, and walks over to the table, bends to kiss Bernie’s cheek, because it’s all or nothing, at this point. Bernie flushes prettily, and gestures to the empty chair next to her. 

“We’ve ordered arancini, just an appetizer,” Bernie says as Serena seats herself, rests the white cloth napkin in her lap. “I suggested we wait for you before ordering the wine.” Serena beams at Bernie, gently touches her hand where it’s resting next to her fork, then pulls her hand back and looks at the people sitting at the table with them.

They are old, that’s what she notices first. It’s not unexpected, two people who have a child in her fifties. But they have wrinkles and grey hair - Winifred’s is actually white, wiry and bright, the kind Serena hopes for, when it’s her time. It’s shaped and molded and sprayed to within an inch of its life. She has a string of pearls on, her hands have elegant rings, her fingers long, like Bernie’s. But Bernie’s facial features have come from her father, that long nose, those eyes, the sad mouth. Crawford looks like a school principal, or a bank manager, someone who sits behind a desk, someone you desperately want to impress. 

“Mr. Wolfe, Mrs. Wolfe,” Serena says, nodding her head in their direction in turn. 

“Oh, Winnie, please. We’re all friends here,” Bernie’s mother says, her voice accented in that particularly upper crust British way, far more studied than natural. Serena smiles, though, accepts the gesture as it’s meant. 

“Winnie, then. Pleasure to meet you.” Serena lifts her menu, looks at the pastas without really taking it in, uses her menu as a way to look at Crawford, who is seated across from her, without looking as though she’s staring. He’s been quiet, looking between Serena and Bernie, his mouth drawn so similarly to his daughter’s. 

“Did you have a nice trip in today? Weather was on your side,” Serena offers by way of starting a conversation. If she’s learned anything it’s that people are always willing to talk at length about both their travels and the weather, and both topics, while slightly boring, are guaranteed to put people at ease. 

“Oh yes, it was lovely, absolutely lovely. No delays at all, rather unusual.” Winnie touches her hair, tucks an invisible strand behind her ear. She’s nervous too, Serena thinks. Everyone at this table is nervous. 

“Ready to order?” The waiter appears as if out of thin air, making Serena start slightly. 

They all look around at each other awkwardly, and Serena summons within herself her best and most charming personality, thinks this is what Bernie needs. She flashes her wide, warm smile at the server. “I think we could use a few more minutes, and a bottle of your best Shiraz, please,” she says, and the waiter, slightly stunned by the full force of Serena Campbell, takes a step back before nodding and turning tail. 

“Right, well, I’ve never had a single bad dish here, so you’re safe as houses with anything you order. I do particularly like their risotto, or perhaps the linguini.” She is effervescent, she is bubbly, she will fill the awkward silences. This is the Serena who charms donors and wins over even the most difficult patients, and Bernie seems a little shellshocked to bear witness to this.

Crawford hums quietly to himself, looks down at the menu, then sighs. “I’ve decided,” he says, and those are the first words Serena hears him say. He has a quiet voice, deep and smooth, and Serena knows that Bernie is her father’s daughter through and through.

“Me too. Bolognese, I think,” Serena says, “What’ve you settled on?” She sets her menu down, folds her hands on top, leans in conspiratorially. 

“Risotto.” He leans back in his chair, his menu folded in front of him, his arms loosely crossed, and Serena thinks she isn’t doing a very good job of winning him over.

“You’ll have to forgive Crawford. He’s a man of few words,” Winnie coos, rubbing a hand against his upper arm, and he looks at his wife with a fond expression that is so like Bernie’s that Serena falls a little bit in love with him. They’re still in love, she thinks, they still care about each other after all these years. 

Bernie is looking back and forth between her father and Serena, like it’s a Wimbledon final, and is of absolutely no help to the flow of conversation. 

“Just like his daughter, then,” Serena answers, and all three of the Wolfes look at her, and she thinks she’s maybe just flirting with the unspoken thing at the table. As she’s about to reach for Bernie’s hand, to hold it, to make sure the message is clear, the waiter appears once more.

“I’ll have the risotto, and a glass of whatever white you think pairs well,” Crawford says. Winnie echoes his order to the letter, and Bernie orders salmon and white wine as well. Serena finds herself the sole recipient of the Shiraz, a glass generously poured for her, and the bottle left, uncorked and breathing, on the table. 

Quiet descends once more while Serena casts about for what to say. She takes this moment, then, to take Bernie’s hand and hold it, her lifeline. Crawford looks at their joined fingers, says nothing. Winnie smiles a strained smile, and Serena thinks that she’s probably worried about what the neighbors will say. Not that the neighbors will ever know, unless the Wolfes divulge that information. She hardly imagines she and Bernie will be taking a trip to visit them. 

“Ah, is this your first time to Holby?” Serena asks, finally, when she’s felt that the silence has extended far longer than is even remotely tolerable. 

“Yes. Berenice seems to like it well enough, we thought we’d see it for ourselves.” Crawford has apparently decided to participate in the conversation now, leaning back towards the table, resting his elbows on the edge. He is thin and reedy and Serena imagines him walking around the block, holding a small blonde girl’s hand as she skips along next to him. 

“I think she likes it partly due to your influence,” Winnie says, and she’s making the effort, and Serena appreciates it. Her face is still pained and pinched and worried, but she is trying. 

“Ah, well,” she hedges, not sure of how to really accept the compliment. “She ran off to Kiev for a bit, and I imagine months in Ukraine is enough to make anyone fall in love with Holby by comparison!” She laughs lightly, tries to let Bernie know it’s not meant as a dig, not meant as a reminder of her leaving. Bernie squeezes her hand, message received. 

“Serena was what made me come back,” she says, her voice soft and kind and brave, because this is what she was scared of, this is what she was nervous for, and she’s saying it aloud in a restaurant to her parents. Serena could kiss her.

Conversation is stilted for the rest of the evening. It doesn’t feel like they’re exactly upset with the fact that Bernie and Serena are together, but it doesn’t feel like they exactly know what to do with that information, and as such, there’s silence and gaps and an awkwardness Serena isn’t sure how to bridge.

\- - -

Crawford pays for the meal, silences Serena’s protests that they should at least split the cheque. They walk to their cars together, Serena leans in to give Bernie a quick kiss on the lips, because it’s important, because she wants Bernie to know she loves her, because she can. Bernie smiles, ducks her head as she opens the driver side door. 

“I’ll ride with Ms. Campbell, if that’s all right,” Crawford says, and walks to Serena’s car, leaving Bernie and Winnie with their mouths open. 

Serena recovers more quickly. “It’ll be nice to have the company. See you at home,” she says, and gives a little wave to the two women still standing like slapped mackerels. 

Her radio is on when she starts the car and she turns it down, but not off, the music filtering through the speakers quietly. 

“You’re dating my daughter,” Crawford says, when she pulls out onto the main road. 

“We’re living together,” Serena answers firmly. Her hands grip the wheel and she wonders just what she’s in for on this drive to her house.

“Time was that if Berenice was seeing a fellow, she’d bring him round the house, let us meet him.” He’s looking out the windshield, watching the headlights of the cars flash past.

“Time was, Bernie needed your approval. But she’s an adult now. She’s fully capable of making her own choices, more than, and besides, I’m not some young pimply-faced fellow that thought trotting along home with Berenice Griselda Wolfe wouldn’t end in heartbreak.” She feels like she’s been prone to speeches lately, wonders if it’s her love for Bernie that brings it out in her. “She’s happy, I’m happy, and I think that’s all that matters. While I would be quite glad if you decide you’ve taken a shine to me, I am by no means planning to hang my hat on your praise.” She turns up the music then, thinks there’s no more need for conversation. 

And then Crawford reaches out, turns the radio off with an efficient snap of the wrist. “It’s good, that she doesn’t feel she needs my approval. It means she trusts herself enough.” Oh. That’s not what Serena thought he’d meant at all, and she feels her face heat, turn red. She wishes she could blame it on the Shiraz, but doesn’t even have that excuse to hide behind tonight. She didn’t even finish the bottle, a fact that Bernie teased her about in low undertones as they exited the restaurant. 

He turns the radio back on, and Serena thinks it’s just as well, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

\- - -

They beat Bernie and Winnie home, but only by a minute or two. Serena shows Crawford to the ground floor guest room, tucked off the sitting room, fresh sheets on the bed. He excuses himself to the bathroom, and Serena settles herself on her couch, listens to the water running from the sink.

The door opens a moment later, Bernie and Winnie coming through, Bernie laden with luggage, Winnie looking spotless and perfect in an effortless way Serena can’t quite believe. For as much as Bernie looks like a ragamuffin most days, it’s difficult to imagine her growing up with such a well-coiffed and elegant woman. 

It’s Bernie’s turn to give a brief tour, and Winnie and Crawford take advantage of their guest room as an escape, leaving Bernie and Serena in the sitting room, sitting on the couch, their bodies touching from shoulder to thigh. They’ve been apart all day, Serena misses being close to Bernie, as silly as it sounds, misses seeing her across the floor at work, misses hearing her laugh echo throughout the ward when Morven makes a particularly ridiculous comment. She likes being with Bernie, simple as.

“They’re nice,” Serena says, bumping into Bernie.

“You’re nice,” Bernie volleys, bumping back. Serena feels young, feels silly, feels like she is maybe someone Bernie has brought over for her parents to approve of, even with all her posturing before.  “Mother likes you, says you’re sweet, wonders how you ever fell for me.”

“It was your dashing good looks and your winning smile, did you tell her that?” Serena asks, letting her head rest against Bernie’s shoulder, nuzzling into her neck. 

“No, I said I wondered how it happened too.” She moves her head slightly, kisses Serena’s temple, and Serena hums happily in response. These are the moments she loves, these are the quiet times she treasures more than anything else.

“After your parents leave, I’m happy to elucidate,” Serena says, her voice sleepy. She’s tired, happy, but tired. 

“Elucidate on what?” Winnie asks, and Bernie and Serena spring apart, like they’ve been caught out having sex on the couch. Serena reminds herself she’s a grown woman, that she’s nothing to prove to anyone. 

“Oh….” Serena casts about for some lie, some clever answer. “On the ways in which Shiraz is far superior to any white wine. A conversation perhaps the whole family should be present for, if your choices at dinner are any indication of your taste,” she says, smiling, and Bernie chuckles next to her, Serena feels the movement, cherishes it. Winnie laughs too, a short, clipped sound, and then moves around the couch to sit on the overstuffed chair. 

“You’ve a lovely home,” she offers, picking at an invisible spot of lint on the arm of the chair. 

“Thank you, we like it,” Serena says, giving Bernie a small smile. Not much changed when Bernie moved in, she didn’t have much that she brought with her, said that Serena’s things were enough, that she liked them, and she liked that Serena liked them, and that was that.

“I think we’re heading to bed soon, I just didn’t want to disappear for the night,” Winnie says. “I’m glad we got to have a meal out, and I’m very glad to meet you, Serena. It’s good to see where Bernie lives.” She reaches out to squeeze Bernie’s knee, the most motherly gesture Serena’s seen from the woman. 

Bernie and Serena stay on the couch long after the Wolfes are in bed, enjoying being with each other. “Your hair is quite a sight today,” Serena comments, touching the strands, mostly straight, mostly tamed. 

“I didn’t know what to do,” Bernie says, a little helplessly. “You know on television, that’s always the first thing a mother says to her daughter, something about her hair looking awful. I just. I just wanted to look like she’d expect.” Her hands are folded in her lap, her fingers twitching like she wants to wring them. 

“You looked nice,” Serena affirms, slides so her back is against the arm of the couch, tucks her feet under Bernie’s thigh. “Your parents are nice.”

“My parents are nice,” she agrees. “My father can difficult.” Serena hums a response, thinks he is difficult, but that doesn’t deter her from liking him all the same. She wonders if Bernie was nervous that she wouldn’t like Crawford and Winnie, if this was as much a test for them as it was for her. 

“Can’t imagine growing up with a father that quiet,” Serena says and Bernie shrugs.

“You may have noticed I’m quiet too,” is all she says and Serena laughs, low and throaty.

“When you want to be. You’re also quite loud sometimes, too.” She pokes a toe up, jostling Bernie’s leg, and Bernie’s hands come down to capture Serena’s ankles, her face flushed. “I meant at work, my dear Ms. Wolfe. When we disagree on patient care. My, my, if your parents knew the way your mind works.” She quirks her eyebrow, a thing she knows Bernie loves. Bernie proves this by leaning in to kiss the offending brow, to kiss her nose, to kiss her mouth. 

\- - -

Crawford snores, that is apparent. The lights are out, and Bernie and Serena are tucked in bed, facing each other, noses close, and they can hear the reverberations throughout the house, shaking with silent laughter at the sheer volume.

“Thank goodness Jason isn’t here,” Bernie says, gasping a little for breath. Things are always funniest after a stressful encounter, Serena thinks, and she holds her stomach slightly, hurting from the laughter.

“How does your mother sleep at night?” she asks, rolling onto her back, looking up at the ceiling.

“Earplugs,” Bernie says, flopping onto her back as well, reaching for Serena’s hand in the darkness, her voice suddenly serious and quiet. “Thank you, Serena.”

“Mm? For what?” She turns her head, makes out the shape of Bernie’s face in the dark. Her eyes are dark and wide, and she has the look on her face like she’s scared, like it’s all too much, and Serena just wishes she could wipe it away.

“For this. Tonight. Whatever else happens this weekend.” Bernie thinks something will be too much for Serena, that some day Serena will be the one who runs. 

“You don’t want to thank me yet. I plan to get embarrassing childhood photos off your mum tomorrow at breakfast.” Serena rolls over again, nestles herself into Bernie, kisses her on the mouth, deep and long, opening her mouth, letting her tongue slide along Bernie’s. “It’s my pleasure,” she says when she pulls away. “My pleasure.”


	3. the earth is movin' but i can't feel the ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crazylittlenugget [asked for](http://belligerently.tumblr.com/ask): Oxbridge boat race AU. If Serena didn't go to Harvard she definitely would have gone to Oxford. I can just see her being the cox of her rowing team and being amazing until one year this leggy blonde rower from the Cambridge team with rippling muscles is totally distracting her. Bonus if the team that win jump in the river and climb out sopping wet after

People who care about the annual boat races between Cambridge and Oxford know about Serena McKinnie. They know that she was the youngest coxswain in the last decade, they know that she never spent time on the reserve team, that she was immediately placed on the blue boat. There’s a bit of a legacy to her. She’s recognized on campus, she wears her dark blue rowing jacket to her morning classes, her brown hair gleaming in the morning light. She’s a legend.

To people who don’t care about the annual boat races between Cambridge and Oxford, Serena McKinnie is simply an excellent student, with an unusual amount of focus on her extracurricular sport. She exemplifies the ideal of a student athlete, perfectly balancing it all.

To Serena McKinnie herself, she is the haggard university student, trying to give 100% to all areas of her life, treasuring the four hours of sleep she gets each night, and truly valuing the coffee cart on her way to class every morning. She has roommates, they all row too, but none of them have the same career ambitions she does, none of them plan to attend more school after they’ve received their diplomas. Besides, there’s a bit of distance between her and the rowers - as it should be, she thinks. Privately, she thinks of them as _her_ rowers, that she has responsibility for them. And, as the cox, she does, to some extent.

She spends her nights going over the morning practice schedule with her coach, repeating back the exercises to him so that he knows she understands. The coach likes it if she can explain the drills to the reserve cox, a double-check that Serena knows what’s going on. She studies the river, too, though she knows it well by now. She studies the currents and patterns almost as much as she studies human anatomy and business, and she’s hardly going for a degree in limnology.

Her winters are hard, extra work, extra training, time to test her skills without the pressure of being on the water. She never lets her fatigue show, not to her team - to her team, she is indomitable, unflappable, and that’s as it should be. She spends her winters learning her rowers, what makes them tick, what to call to them to make them dig deeper than they already do, to find that last ounce of strength that will propel them to victory.

It’s good, Serena thinks, that she keeps a full schedule, that there’s not much time in her day for dilly-dallying. One of the men’s rowers, Edward Campbell, is always after her to go to the pub. He’s in the fourth seat on the reserve boat, something that Serena secretly thinks cements his status as a meathead - strong, without being the most technically proficient. She denies him every time, excuses of homework or meetings with her coach or dinners with the team. Never the real reason, which is simply that he isn’t her type, and will never be her type so long as he remains a he. Serena doesn’t exactly hide her attraction to women, doesn’t broadcast it either. Doesn’t have time for anything, to be honest.

\- - -

April comes quickly every year, it always does. Christmas period is spent abroad, racing other teams, always flies by. Then Serena is consumed with the build-up, the push to get ready for the race. Some professors go easier on her, a knowing wink when they see her on campus. She doesn’t ask for special treatment, just pushes herself to her limit in the early spring.

The morning of the race dawns, and Serena is up before the sun rises, waking up her team, easing into a run down to the boathouse. Cambridge will appear at any moment, they always do. She stops at the edge of the water, hands on her thighs, panting slightly. And then she hears someone coming up behind her, a girl about her age in light blue.

“Morning,” she offers, congenially. Serena’s never been one for bad sportsmanship, even on Boat Race Day.

“Ready to feel the sting of losing?” The new girl says equably, smiling broadly, her hair a frizzy halo in the sun. She reaches up to tie it back, her long fringe still in her eyes.

“I was about to ask you the same,” Serena answers, running a hand through her own hair, the short strands sticking up. Her mother had made some comment about her getting a ‘boy haircut’ when she was home last, but Serena doesn’t mind it, appreciates the easy upkeep. “I’m Serena McKinnie.” She sticks out her hand, and the other woman grasps it, her grip firm, her arms strong, her legs - Serena notices - even stronger.

“The cox! I’ve heard about you. I’m Bernie Wolfe.” Their handshake lingers. Serena hasn’t heard of Bernie, but is used to being known in rowing circles, ducks her head in acknowledgement.

They stretch in silence for a bit, Serena enjoys the play of the sun on the water, how peaceful it all is, the calm before the storm. “What position are you?” Serena asks, pulling an arm across her body. Bernie is holding her her ankle, bent at the knee, at her rear, and Serena can’t help but notice her thigh muscles.

“Stroke. On the reserves.” She shrugs, “I’ll be on the blue boat next year.” She says it with a confidence, not a cockiness, and Serena likes it.

“I’ll look forward to racing you next year, then,” Serena says with another smile. “Good to meet you, Bernie Wolfe. My team’s headed here now, and I’ll be skinned if I’m seen talking to someone in light blue.” Bernie tosses off another sunny smile, and Serena can’t help but feel buoyed by the encounter.

\- - -

Oxford wins, easily. They have a good team, they trust Serena. She’s feted as they get out of their boat, high fives and hugs, and even a couple of saucy team members slap her on the rear, startling a laugh out of her.

She watches the reserves race with interest, watches for Bernie, that bright blonde hair. Serena can see the focus on Bernie’s face, the set of her mouth. She wishes she’d run to another stop, but she’s at Stag Brewery, only sees the last bit, but watches Bernie all the while, forgets to cheer for Oxford, and it’s only when her team begins screaming and jumping up and down that she realizes the race is over, that Cambridge lost. She feels a pang of regret, wishes Bernie could’ve won too. Doesn’t know why she cares so much.

After the race, while the teams are all milling about the pub, Bernie comes up to Serena, a friendly bump on the shoulder like they’ve known each other for years. “Congratulations,” she says, hands Serena a pint. “Cheers.”

Serena takes a sip. “Sorry about your race,” she says, and Bernie touches her own glass to Serena’s, shrugs.

“I like to win, but I didn’t think this was our year. Next year, though…” She trails off, a laugh in her voice.

“Next year, when you’re on the big girl’s team,” Serena chides, snickers. Bernie laughs at that, a strange noise, and it makes Serena laugh too. She likes Bernie, likes her company. Likes being able to have a chat with someone after the race that isn’t an analysis of her calls and her steering.

“I think I can take you.” Bernie tosses off this remark like it’s nothing, but her eyes are dark, and then she _winks_ and Serena blushes.

She arches her eyebrow, her only line of defense. “Loser buys the winner dinner, next year.” Bernie holds out her hand for the second time that day, and Serena grasps it. Their hands are both sore, callused, their hands worked hard today. They shake once, and Serena lets her hand fall away. Then her bowman appears, pulls her away from Bernie.

“See you!” she calls over her shoulder, and Bernie lifts her glass in salute.

“Next year!” she calls back.

\- - -

They keep in touch, strangely enough. Bernie writes a letter, just a short one. She’s included an article profiling Serena, and Serena knows she’s taking the mickey, thinks somehow Bernie knows how little Serena cares for any sort of fame associated with her.

Bernie writes her phone number at the bottom of the article.

It takes Serena a week to call her.

“How’s practice?” she asks, after the awkwardness of their hellos is out of the way.

“Been working on a power stroke drill. Pretty sore most days, but it’s making a difference.” Serena hears what Bernie isn’t saying, that her coach probably told her she needed to work harder if she wanted to be on the blue boat next season, that Bernie is most likely spending every spare moment training for it.

“Train smarter, not harder,” she says, trite words, but she means them. “Doesn’t do anyone any good if you strain a shoulder muscle and can’t row at all.”

“Maybe they’ll make me cox,” Bernie ripostes, humor in her voice. Serena laughs, dealt with the comments that she never had to do any work, that all she had to do was shout “row.”

“I just want to make sure you’re in the boat that I beat next year,” Serena says, and she knows she’s flirting with Bernie now.

“If I’m in Cambridge’s blue boat, there’s no way you’re getting around me. You’ll be too distracted.” Serena imagines that if they were in the same room, she would’ve stuck her tongue out at Bernie. But Bernie isn’t entirely wrong. Serena wonders if she could still do her job with blinders on. Thinks about saying it aloud, doesn’t want to show her cards too early.

They talk once a week, usually. She finds herself coaching Bernie, a little, uses the tips she gives to her own stroke, feels guilty about it, but not enough to stop. She wants to race Bernie.

They’re both competitive, but not overtly so. They both want to win, they both love their teams, but they like a good match-up as well. “I just want you to be the best so I know I’ve beaten the best,” is what Serena says one evening as she’s twining the phone cord between her fingers. Bernie laughs at that, the loud honking sound that Serena has grown immensely fond of.

It’s a strange friendship, one she doesn’t talk about with her teammates, not even the ones she lives with. If they wonder who she talks on the phone to at odd hours, they don’t ask. Serena has a reputation for being private, and this is where it comes in handy.

Classes let out for the summer, and Serena is sure to give Bernie her home telephone number - her home address, too. Bernie does the same and Serena writes it in her little black book, in her careful script. She likes the way “Wolfe” looks in cursive, all flowing and loops. If she were prone to poetry, she might say that it reminds her of the river.

She goes on holiday, sends Bernie a postcard - a picture of a river, draws in two tiny rowing boats, labels one O and one C, makes sure to point out that the C boat is losing badly. She signs the card with a small heart, and a big swoopy S. Hopes it’s not too much, drops it in the post box before she can change her mind.

Bernie tells her the postcard came, tells her that she’d had the river upside down, so Cambridge was actually winning the race, and Serena feels herself blush as they’re on the phone because Bernie doesn’t seem to mind the heart. She doesn’t say anything about it, but she doesn’t seem awkward either.

Bernie sends another letter, longer than the last, detailing a camping trip she took with her mates. Serena is thrilled to see it’s signed with a small x before Bernie’s name. It comes right before Serena is set to go back to uni, so she writes back quickly, scribbles out a good workout suggestion for Bernie’s stroke, wishes her luck on try-outs. Signs a heart.

Serena has had pen pals before, has had a girlfriend, even (more than one), but there’s something about Bernie that feels different. Not that she thinks Bernie is her girlfriend, they’ve only seen each other in person once. But this isn’t a normal friendship, there’s always something more lurking at the edges, tinging their phone calls and letters. Serena thinks they both feel it.

Bernie calls one night, her voice breathless on the phone. “I did it!” she exclaims the instant she hears Serena’s voice on the other end. “I’m on the blue boat.” Her happiness is infectious and Serena smiles widely on the other end. She’s made the races more difficult for herself now, by helping Bernie, but can’t seem to care in the face of Bernie’s joy.

“That’ll make this year’s victory all the sweeter,” Serena says and Bernie just chuffs out a laugh, says “In your dreams,” but her tone doesn’t quite land, and there’s suggestion there instead. Serena’s face colors, she fiddles with phone cord. “I have a paper to write,” she says finally, “but congratulations, Bern. I’m so happy for you.”

“Thank you.” Bernie’s voice is serious. “You helped, a lot. Don’t tell your team that your coaching got the best stroke in all of England onto the Cambridge boat.” She hangs up before they can say a proper good-bye, and Serena stares at the phone in her hand. _In your dreams_.

\- - -

Serena’s final year at Oxford flies by in a haze of rowing practice, races, academic courses, and medical school applications. She doesn’t have time for much else, doesn’t call Bernie as much, never writes letters. She thinks Bernie is equally busy, devoting even more time to rowing, her competitive streak rearing its head.

It’s April before she knows it, can’t believe it’s all coming to an end. There’s a thrill in her stomach as she thinks that she’ll see Bernie before long. Bernie, in that light blue. It’s a good color for her.

The day of the race dawns, bright and clear. Serena wakes her team, calls them all, a cheerful alarm clock, and starts on a run down to the boathouse. It feels like a ritual, she wonders if Bernie feels the same.

As she runs, she gets the sense there’s someone behind her, throws a look over her shoulder and sees Bernie, tall, leggy Bernie, loping after her, trying to catch her pace. She smiles, beams, as bright as the sun rising over the river and slows for a moment so Bernie can catch up.

“Hello, you,” she says, with a fondness rarely heard in her voice. Bernie nods, a little out of breath after pushing herself to meet Serena. Her legs are strong, the muscles well-defined and Serena can’t help but admire her calves, her thighs, the rowing gear leaving little to the imagination. She gets the sense that Bernie is assessing her too, as they run, matched stride for stride. Bernie moves closer to Serena, so close she can nudge her shoulder gently. She laughs, and Serena laughs too, just happy to be with Bernie, even on race day.

They stretch by the boathouse, catch their breath. It feels like tradition, even though it’s only the second year. Not for the first time, Serena thinks it’s lucky they aren’t on the same team, thinks how hard it would be to lead her team with Bernie Wolfe sitting right in front of her the whole time. Her hair, a beautiful tangle of blonde curls, catches the sun just as easily as it did last year. Serena uses her stretches as a cover to stare at Bernie, takes the time to really look at her, look at her profile, that long nose, her dark eyes. She thinks Bernie can feel her staring, she tucks her hair behind her ear, then looks away, up the river, and Serena drops her gaze.

She hears the excited whooping of her team, a more exuberant grouping than last year’s, and the stillness of her morning with Bernie is broken. Bernie reaches out, touches Serena’s shoulder, lets her hand trail down Serena’s arm, lets their fingers touch, so gently, then pulls away, eases back into a run, leaving Serena to her team.

Serena loves her team as they bound into view, barreling into her with hugs and enthusiasm, ready to race, ready to win. They want to give her a victory, for her last race against Cambridge, they love her too. Serena finds herself feeling suddenly nostalgic, her eyes wet, because it really is all coming to an end, soon.

She gets swept up in the festive atmosphere, lets herself be carried away on promises of victory from her team. They are easy to coach, easy to cheer for, and they barrel down to their boat, a giddy mess of women acting like young girls in their exhilaration. Serena sees Bernie climb into the Cambridge boat, her blonde hair easy to spot. Bernie winks at Serena, and she can only blush in response as she settles in her seat. Her team takes a moment of silence, they do it before every race, to calm their minds, focus their breathing, help them work as one. Then they warm up, row downstream, and Serena has to remind herself that Bernie Wolfe is not on her team.

Serena's arms are up as her team settles, the umpire waves the red flag, the race starts. Serena feels the weight of it all, it falls on her shoulders. But she still glances over at Cambridge, sees Bernie, pulling, her muscles practically _rippling_ and she has to tear her gaze back to her team, keep them going. She calls, yells, cajoles, everything she’s been taught how to do. Her boat pulls ahead, she’s even with Bernie for a moment, they lock eyes, and then Oxford pulls ahead further and Serena can’t see Bernie anymore. They get to Hammersmith, to deep water, and Serena knows they're ahead, knows the statistics that the first team here usually wins the race. There isn't a lot of jockeying for the best position, Oxford is too far ahead. She spares a quick glance behind her, never losing her pace, sees the nose of the Cambridge boat, a flash of blonde hair from the stern, and turns back around.

She feels that pang of regret, that wishing they could both win. But then she looks out at her team, straining and sweating and pulling, and knows she wants to win more.

\- - -

And Oxford does win. Her team jumps into the river in celebration, pulling Serena in too. They huddle in the water, a small circle, and they bow their heads in close. This win is for them, this moment for them, before they have to let the rest of the world into their victory. Serena hugs every last one of her teammates before they pull themselves out of the water, is the last to emerge. It feels like a fitting goodbye to this day, and she feels a lump in her throat. She climbs out of the river, the water sluicing off her racing suit, and she finds herself enfolded in a towel.

“Thought you might need this, champ,” Bernie’s voice says, her arms wrapped around Serena as tightly as the towel. Serena looks up at Bernie through her wet hair, her arms trapped under the terrycloth, and all she can do is smile.

“Told you,” she says, and Bernie smiles back. Not happy to lose, but happy to see Serena win.

They watch the reserves race together, and if anyone thinks anything strange about the Oxford cox and the Cambridge stroke standing so close together, no one says a thing. Serena finds herself holding Bernie’s hand, having grasped it as the reserves race came down to a photo finish. Bernie places a quick kiss to their joined fingers, and any doubts Serena had about how Bernie felt fly out of her mind as she looks into Bernie’s eyes, feels their inevitable pull.

The men’s race happens, too, and Cambridge wins that one. Serena feels the loss for her male teammates, but not too keenly - she’s still riding the high of her win.

And she and Bernie find themselves at the same pub as last year. Bernie makes to remove her team jacket, a speck of light blue in a sea of dark, but Serena stops her. “I like you in that color,” she says under her breath, embarrassed. Bernie flushes appreciatively, stills her hands on the zipper.

“I’ll get us a pint,” she says, and weaves her way through the crowd, easy to spot. Serena fields congratulations, pats on the back, all the good things of a celebration, when Edward comes into view. He’s smiling at her, and she stops herself from making a snide remark highlighting his loss.

“Celebrating alone?” he asks, and Serena can smell the beer _emanating_ from him. “Come round to mine later, and I’ll give your V a proper recognition.” He clearly thinks this pun should earn him a smile, a giggle, but all Serena can do is roll her eyes and scan the pub for Bernie. “You’re always so stuck up, McKinnie,” he slurs when she doesn’t say anything. He opens his mouth to continue, but then, blessedly, Bernie reappears, slinging her arm around Serena’s shoulders, holding her close.

“All right, mate?” she asks Edward, who looks her up and down, then looks at Serena, nestled into Bernie’s side.

“The two of you could come by…” he trails off with a suggestive look in his eye and Serena can’t help the burst of disbelieving laughter that escapes from her lips. This registers in his alcohol-fogged brain, and he looks hurt. “Could’ve just said no,” he humphs and sidles away.

Serena still has a smile on her lips when Bernie leans in to kiss her, their teeth touching. It’s awkward for a moment, and then it isn’t. Their pint glasses find their way to the table next to them, and remain untouched as their hands are far too preoccupied with other things. Serena hears a whoop from behind her, thinks it’s one of her rowers, can’t be bothered to check. Bernie flicks her tongue against Serena’s lips, and Serena opens her mouth willingly, lets her tongue slide along Bernie’s slowly.

It all feels so slow, like they’re honey on a winter’s day. She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t thought about this, but to have Bernie in her arms feels like a dream, as cliche as it sounds to Serena’s brain. They part, after a while, and Serena leans her forehead against Bernie’s, a gentle touch because she doesn’t want any distance, not yet.

“What a consolation prize!” Serena’s team have found her, and she endures their gentle ribbing, even has her face turns a beet red. “No wonder Cambridge didn’t win, not with the promise of Serena McKinnie’s undivided attention!” Bernie has the grace to blush at this, to smile, even though the sting of her loss is still fresh enough.

“Undivided attention, eh?” Bernie says, and Serena laughs, leans into her, hides her embarrassed face in the crook of Bernie’s neck.

“You can have the room tonight, McKinnie!” “Might as well give their stroke some comfort in defeat!” It’s endless, and Serena is only comforted by the feeling of Bernie’s laughter against her side, Bernie’s hand running up and down her back, pausing at the nape of her neck, fiddling with the short hair there.

When her team leaves her, finally ( _finally_ ), she leans back to look up at Bernie. “You know,” she says, an eyebrow quirked, “They were probably serious about letting me have the room.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as someone who has never watched a boat race in her entire life, please do not take any of this as fact, thank you.


	4. now look at me, i can fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> slightlyintimidating asked for: Pillow talk. I feel like there should be more fics of them just talking about everything and nothing in bed together at all hours.

It’s a late night, too late. Serena feels almost drunk with how tired she is. She sends a message to Alan, asks him to look in on Jason, sends Jason a message too, saying she’s spending the night at the hospital. There are patients to monitor, and she doesn’t trust herself to drive home, not now.

The on-call room is empty, dark and welcoming. The bed seems like a godsend to Serena, even though it’s tiny and hard and smells faintly of antiseptic. She lays her head on the pillow, willing sleep to come. The door opens, then, a crack of light finding its way in, and Berenice - Bernie - Wolfe enters quietly. She’s still new to the hospital, but Serena likes her. She seems no-nonsense, incredibly talented...and something else Serena can’t quite put her finger on.

“If you don’t close that door, I’ll not be held responsible for my actions,” Serena says groggily from her pillow.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Bernie says and closes the door more forcefully than she probably intended to. “Didn’t know anyone was in here. Mind if I take the top?” Serena makes a noise that could be interpreted as assent and she feels the bunk bed move as Bernie climbs easily into the upper bed. Feels Bernie moving above her, settling.

“Late night, too?” Serena asks, because she isn’t sure sleep is coming any time soon.

“Not anxious to go home,” Bernie says, and Serena is surprised at her honesty, but thinks she’s heard something about a tense marriage, estranged children. She doesn’t feel like it’s her place to prod. “You?”

“Too much work, not enough time. Didn’t trust myself to drive, didn’t want to take a taxi.” Serena doesn’t say that she sometimes likes to be in the hospital at night. It’s quieter, a comforting hum around everything, less of a frenetic pace to it. The patients are nicer at night, calmer. It feels like another world, hemmed in by sleep.

“If you ever need a lift, the Bernie Wolfe taxi service is known for its prompt and reliable service.” The offer comes with a wry tone that makes Serena laugh. 

“I’ve seen your car - it’s tiny!” She rolls on her back, looks up at the bottom of the bed above her, tries to imagine how Bernie must be laying. 

“Tiny, but reliable. I’m not the one who was barking at a mechanic about a sputtering engine in the hospital parking lot.” Serena smiles at the memory - meeting Bernie had been the bright spot in that day, caught her off guard. She flirts with everyone, yes, but Bernie is one of the few women who flirted back, with a spark in her eye no less. 

“Yes, well…” Serena finds she has no comeback, is too tired to think of anything witty to say, though she wants to impress Bernie with her banter, doesn’t know why. “I may just take you up on that some day, so long as we can make a stop at Albie’s for some Shiraz along the way.” 

“Is red your drink of choice?” Bernie shifts again and the bedframe moves too. Serena imagines Bernie on her side, her head pillowed on her arm. Serena shifts too, back to her side, faces the wall, thinks that if she and Bernie were in bed together, they’d be facing each other. The thought makes her face warm and her stomach flutter.

“Mmm, yes. Yours?” Serena is feeling comfortably drowsy now, thinks sleep isn’t far off, thinks that the lull of Bernie’s voice is maybe the key to getting a good night’s rest.

“I’m not particular. Depends who I’m drinking with. But after the piss poor options in Kandahar, I’ll take anything.” Serena hums an answer, her eyes closed, so close to sleep that she can’t even open her mouth to formulate words. “I’ll take you up on the offer of Shiraz, though. Sounds nice.” Serena’s only answer is a small snore, an exhalation of breath, her face in the crook of her elbow, her legs bent at the knee, the sterile sheets tucked in close.

\- - -

They’re sprawled out in Serena’s living room - her house was closer, or it was cleaner, or more hospitable. The reason is lost, they’re both pink-faced and tipsy. Serena is stretched out on her sofa, Bernie lolling in a chair, her legs crossed on the ottoman, her posture terrible, and she’s laughing, a great honking sound that Serena vows to elicit more often.

“What was your first time?” Serena asks, and Bernie’s laugh dies in her throat as she looks at her. “Getting drunk, I mean. Getting drunk!” She colors at the confusion, wishes she could disappear into the couch cushions. There’s always something unspoken between them, something just at the edges of every conversation, and Serena’s not quite sure what name to put to it.

“I was ten,” Bernie says, shifting slightly in the chair, her rear end flirting dangerously with the edge of the seat. Serena thinks she can’t be comfortable, not with her spine, but says nothing from her prone position on the couch. 

“Ten? Got an early start, eh?” Serena reaches for her wine glass, a half-blind fumble for the coffee table. She sees no reason to stop drinking just because they’ve left Albie’s. Propping herself up on her elbow, she takes a sip and sees Bernie watching her, watching the line of her throat as she swallows her wine.

“Very early. It was at a cousin’s wedding, and my mum thought she was pouring me sparkling cider. Turns out it was champagne. Didn’t notice till I booted in the bushes.” The stem of Bernie’s wine glass is dangling between her pointer and middle fingers and she’s letting it swing back and forth, the slight slosh of liquid a calming counterpoint to their festival mood.

“I can’t quite top that. Mine was just sneaking into my mother’s liquor cabinet. She was gone for the night, left me on my own, trusted me to behave. And I got right and proper swozzled. On very good, very old whisky, too. And then added water to the bottle and put it right back on the shelf. I wasn’t even with friends! Just got drunk and watched old episodes of ‘Are You Being Served?’ My mother never said anything and neither did I.” Serena laughs at the memory, before the sharp sting of missing Adrienne hits her, the way it always does. 

“Well, we’ve both learned to hold our alcohol now, it seems.” Bernie says, and Serena knows she can sense the shift in mood, isn’t sure where to go, is tiptoeing around to find a suitable topic.

“I bet the army taught you that soon enough,” she answers, sets her wine glass back on the table, harder than she means to, turns on her back, fluffs the throw pillow under her head. Thinks maybe she’ll just fall asleep on the couch. Thinks Bernie could spend the night on that chair if she wanted to. Thinks it sounds nice to spend the night with Bernie. 

“If you can’t keep up with your men, they don’t respect you,” Bernie says quietly, and Serena thinks she knows what that’s like, being a woman in charge in a world dominated by men. She feels so incredibly grateful to have Bernie Wolfe in her life, to have a woman who knows what it’s like to live the life they do, even if she went about it in an entirely different way. 

“And now you just have the formidable Serena Campbell to match. I’m sure my reputation precedes me.” Serena closes her eyes, lets the sound of Bernie’s laugh roll over her, feels the noise as much as she hears it, lets it nest in her skull, in her heart, in her gut. 

“I was told not to trust you with a bottle of wine, and if I expected you to share, I’d have to buy two bottles.” Serena laughs at that too. She laughs more, with Bernie in her life. Having someone to share the good times and the bad with makes all the difference, she no longer feels alone at the top, no longer feels as isolated as she once did. She wonders what her life would have been like if Bernie had been there when her mother was hospitalized. Thinks she might’ve had a friend. 

“It’s getting late,” Bernie murmurs, but makes no effort to move. Serena opens one eye, squints against the light of her sitting room. 

“You can spend the night. On that chair, or the guest bedroom.” She waves in the direction of her stairs. “I’m not sure I’m moving til morning, if I’m honest.” As if to illustrate her point, she pulls the blanket off the back of the couch, spreads it out.

“I’m happy to stay here then, too,” Bernie says and Serena is glad at the thought. They’ll both be sore in the morning, and tired, too, but they’ll wake together when the sun comes in annoyingly early through her blinds, and that feels like enough of a reason to suffer the aches.

\- - -

They’re sitting on the floor of their office, their backs against the wall, the blinds drawn, the only light from the lamp in the corner. They’ve had a long shift, a hard one. Not enough wins, far too many losses. Serena’s legs are stretched out in front of her, Bernie’s legs bent, her arms around her knees. 

“We did what we could,” Serena says, but the words sound hollow. It’s what they say to patients’ families, to people who don’t know the medicine. It’s not a false statement, but it’s not a helpful one either. Bernie holds out a hand, rests it on Serena’s thigh. Serena doesn’t take it, not yet, lets her forefinger dance on Bernie’s palm, traces the lines that crisscross it, trails up her middle finger, then slides her hand into Bernie’s waiting grasp.

This contact is new, it’s different, and it makes Serena’s stomach turn in a delicious and terrifying and heart-stopping way. They sit in silence, their hands clasped, and Serena is sure Bernie must be able to feel her heartbeat, if not hear it, too. Then Bernie’s hand rubs against the back of Serena’s, a comforting gesture, calming, and it’s all Serena can do not to give into the temptation to lean her head against Bernie’s shoulder, to close her eyes and let this day end.

“In university, after finals, when we were too tired to move, my roommates and I wouldn’t even make it to our beds. We’d just sit close together on the floor and commiserate.” Bernie’s thumb hasn’t stopped moving, Serena can feel the vibrations of her voice, feels as if her senses are being filled with Bernie Wolfe.

“My roommates and I would get hammered. As soon as our last final was turned in, we’d practically run to the bar. Toast each other for making it through. Let all the undergrads buy us pints and shots and leave them behind as we staggered home.” Serena moves infinitesimally closer to Bernie, shifts her legs so her hip is right next to Bernie’s.

“It seems so easy now, so simple,” Bernie says, leaning her head back, closing her eyes. “No messy marriages, no career-ending injuries, just studying and tests and cheap beer.” 

“I do not miss the cheap beer,” Serena huffs. “I do miss knowing that there was someone else who had the answer for everything. That someone else could give the final word.” She knows Bernie was trying to lighten the mood, but she can’t quite bring herself to draw a veil over the day yet. Her eyes are wet, and she can’t quite shake the feeling that she made the wrong call, or didn’t do her job well enough, and she hates feeling that way, hates even more feeling that way in front of someone else.

“I once streaked through the library on a dare,” Bernie says abruptly and Serena’s head snaps up, and she sees Bernie’s gentle smile. “Got caught by the campus security, of course, but they didn’t know what to do with a naked woman. So they let me go.” She shrugs and all Serena can do is think of a lithe, nude Bernie Wolfe, limbs all akimbo, but so brave, running past tables of studying students.

“I don’t know that I would have pegged you for a rebel,” Serena says, bumping Bernie’s shoulder with her own, and Bernie squeezes her hand, drops a wink so quick Serena might’ve missed it. 

“Had to get it all out before I joined the army, you see,” she answers. Serena laughs properly at that and finally, finally, lets her head fall to Bernie’s shoulder, feels Bernie’s cheek against her scalp. Closes her eyes, and lets herself feel enveloped by the woman next to her, lets the day drain away, so she can be ready for tomorrow.

\- - -

“I just - I didn’t want to overwhelm you,” Bernie says, her chin resting on Serena’s hip, her hand still between Serena’s thighs, and she looks young and nervous, as if she’s just waiting for Serena to change her mind or tell her it’s all been a mistake.

“Bernie, I have been eaten out before!” Serena gasps, exasperated, the feeling of want removing any subtlety from her words. “I hardly think one mouth is different from another, when you get down to it!” Bernie seems to take this as a challenge and ducks her head down, as if determined to prove Serena wrong, determined to show Serena just what it is a mouth can do.

Serena doesn’t quite believe that this is how she’s spending her Saturday night, having sex with Bernie for the first time. Having sex with a woman for the first time. Bernie has been oh-so-cautious, like a person confronted with a very scared animal, as if any sudden move will make Serena scarper. She’s had to berate Bernie all night, convince her over and over that there is nothing she wants more than to have Bernie’s mouth on hers, wants nothing more than to feel what Bernie’s skin feels like, wants nothing more than to have Bernie’s fingers inside of her.

And then Bernie licks her, and that’s all Serena wants, forever and ever. She wants that wet heat, that strong pressure, that _everything_. She gasps, and fists her hands in the sheets, her whole body taut as a bowstring, her eyes clenched tight. It’s true, she wouldn’t know Bernie’s mouth from Edward’s, probably, except she can _hear_ Bernie making noises, sucking sounds, sounds of pleasure, occasionally Serena’s name, and she wouldn’t trade that for all the world.

Bernie slides up the bed, her hand trailing up Serena’s side, her fingers resting on Serena’s neck, just below her ear. She keeps her face close to Serena’s, their heads sharing a pillow, and Serena likes the feeling of Bernie’s breath on cheek. 

“How was...it?” Bernie asks, and colors at the question, not properly able to verbalize anything. Serena finds herself enamored of this shy version of the trauma surgeon, bare and vulnerable, and just wanting Serena to be happy.

“I expect I’ll need several more rounds to offer a definitive opinion, but as first runs go, I’d say it was a wild success,” Serena says, leans in, rubs her nose against Bernie’s, kisses her once, twice, lets her mouth linger, gently pulling at Bernie’s lower lip. 

Bernie smiles, that small, sweet smile, her mouth a cupid’s bow, and Serena falls a little more in love. She moves onto her back, clasps Bernie’s right hand in her left, holds their hands up, watches the light filter through their joined fingers, examines every one of Bernie’s digits with the care and precision that has earned her reputation as a thorough doctor. 

“What was your first time?” Serena asks, remembering when she asked that same question long ago, drunk on wine and Bernie’s company, never dreaming they’d end up here. She thinks maybe she’d hoped, in some dark recess of her mind, that there might be something between the two of them, but that she was too scared to name it, back then, just settled happily for Bernie’s friendship and thought no more of it.

“With a man or a woman?” Bernie asks, and Serena doesn’t have an answer to that. 

“Either. Both. You pick.” Bernie’s propped her head up on her arm, her other hand still in Serena’s. She uses their joined fingers to pull Serena close, tugging her gently so they’re touching, sweat-damp skin to sweat-damp skin.

“With a man, it was unsatisfying. But I felt like maybe that was how it was supposed to be? You see all those sitcoms where the wife isn’t happy with how her husband performs. I thought that was just something we put up with, maybe. But it was at a party, and my best mate and I made an agreement to lose our virginities - she said she didn’t want to go off to university with it still intact. So I swallowed a beer, found a boy from the track team, let him take me to bed. He was eager and I was inexperienced, and it was over in minutes. Seconds even.” There’s no hint of nostalgia or fondness to this story, just a perfunctory retelling of an event in Bernie’s life.

“And Alex?” Serena asks, knows she’s jealous, knows Bernie can hear it in her voice.

“She was eager and I was inexperienced,” Bernie says, trying to be funny but missing the tone. She shrugs, and Serena knows that’s the end of any talk of Alex, at least for tonight. If there’s one thing she’s learned about Bernie, it’s that Bernie will talk about anything, when she’s given the space to think it through, to figure out what exactly it is she wants to say. 

“My first time, my mother walked in on me. Me and Thomas Clarke. She told him to get his arse out of our house. He barely had time to pull his pants up, and she was threatening to grab the broom.” Serena loves telling stories about her mother, loves keeping the part of her alive that was good. Bernie never presses her about Adrienne, must know it’s still a fresh bruise, not ripe for poking.

“And with a woman?” Bernie smirks, her hand in Serena’s hair now, fiddling with the short strands. Her touch is so gentle it almost takes Serena’s breath away.

“She was eager and I was inexperienced,” Serena says, an eyebrow raised and gets a proper honk out of Bernie. She laughs too, ducks her head under Bernie’s chin, slides a foot between Bernie’s calves. Lets herself curl in and be held, holds Bernie just as close.

\- - -

Serena thinks she’ll never get tired of waking up with Bernie, hopes she never will. They usually fall asleep holding each other, but then, during the night, Bernie gets too hot, pulls away, just her hand staying near Serena, resting near her shoulder or her stomach, not out of reach. Her face is usually mashed in the pillows, the fabric leaving wrinkles in her face that don’t leave for at least a half hour. 

They’re both early risers, eager to get a start on the day. Bernie says she’s always preferred sunrises to sunsets, likes nothing more than the silence of the morning, the stillness of it all. Before Bernie spent most of her nights in Serena’s bed, Serena was never one to loll around in bed. She wakes before her alarm, usually turns it off on her way to the shower. She’s not a time-waster.

And it doesn’t feel like time-wasting, spending precious minutes in bed with Bernie, their faces bare of make-up and pretense, no barriers between them. It’s their private world, their tiny slice of paradise, those few minutes before duty or Jason calls. 

“I’ve got an EVAR today,” Serena says, and Bernie’s reply is muffled by the down pillow. “And you’ve got...something, I’m sure.” She walks her fingers across Bernie’s shoulder, under the mop of hair that looks exactly as it does when they’re at work.

Bernie turns her head to the side, still embedded in the pillow, dislodging Serena’s hand, so she can answer. “Morven is briefing me on the F1s and I’ve been meaning to catch up on paperwork.” Serena smiles, knows that Bernie must be dreading all the bureaucracy, the mundanity of it all. 

“Scrub in with me, then. Use it as a break from all those things you hate.” Bernie is the quintessential surgeon, gets a high off being in theatre. Bernie perks up at Serena’s suggestion, even lifting her head up to kiss Serena’s hand, still in Bernie’s limited range. Serena laughs, pats Bernie’s cheek with no small amount of fondness, lets her thumb slide across Bernie’s lips.

Bernie flicks her tongue out ever so slightly, and Serena pulls her hand away. “None of that, or we’ll never get anywhere. And we both have to shower.” Bernie lifts her head again, her eyes dark and suggestive and happy. “Separately,” Serena adds, “Or we really will never get anywhere.” 

Serena is loathe to get out of bed, to break the spell that surrounds them. She presses a kiss to Bernie’s temple, and Bernie smiles, though only half her mouth is visible. “Five more minutes,” she says, and Serena can do nothing but acquiesce, because what’s five minutes.

“What else will you do today?” she asks Bernie, nestling in closer to her, pulling the comforter in tight, tucking it under her armpit.

“Might get a coffee from Pulses. It is a day of the week that ends in y, after all. Might buy someone a pastry, too. I’ll probably eat the lunch that I know was packed for me last night. And I’ll drive a beautiful surgeon home.” Serena likes when Bernie is playful, silly. Thinks Bernie hasn’t let herself be this way in a long time, thinks Bernie hasn’t had anyone to be like this with.

“Should I be jealous of Jac Naylor?” Serena asks, falsely taken aback, fluttering her eyelashes, a hand to her chest in mock horror.

“You know I mean you, Serena,” Bernie says, her voice serious. She always makes sure Serena knows that she is what Bernie wants, that she is what makes Bernie happy. Joking or not, she never fails to reassure Serena of her commitment. Serena blushes at the compliment, no pretense there. She tilts Bernie’s chin up, her thumb and forefinger holding her face, and she just stares at Bernie, long and hard, stares at the woman she loves. 

“Time to get up,” is all she says, and kisses Bernie, quick and sloppy, chucks her chin as she slides out of bed.

\- - -

They’re watching the TV in Bernie’s bedroom, some silly gameshow, a remake of the Newlywed Game. Bernie’s in boxers and a t-shirt she’s stolen from Serena. Serena’s in Bernie’s hoodie and plaid pajama bottoms. It’s all so grossly domestic, the kind of thing Serena would gag at if she saw anyone else do. There’s a bowl of popcorn between them, and Bernie has a tin of M&Ms she’s popping in her mouth along with the kernels. 

“I don’t know that we’d win this game,” Bernie says, crossing her legs at the ankle, wiggling her toes up and down. “What’s your favorite color?” 

Serena mutes the television, turns to look at Bernie. “Can’t you guess? That’s the point of the game, after all.” 

“Can’t guess what I don’t know,” Bernie says, shoveling a handful of popcorn in her mouth, uncaring. “Mine is -”

“Let me guess. Grey. Or black.” Serena laughs, and Bernie finishes chewing with all the dignity she can muster.

“Dark green, if you must know. And yours must be orange, given how much you wear that blouse of yours.” Serena swats at Bernie playfully, lets Bernie trap her hand, hold it hostage against her chest, doesn’t fight it.

“Blue. It’s blue.” She doesn’t say it’s the blue of Bernie’s scrubs, thinks that’s going a bit too far, even for them. She twitches her thumb in Bernie’s grasp. “Favorite animal?”

“Cow.” This startles a surprised chuckle from Serena, but Bernie is in earnest, nods to prove her point. Serena thinks of saying hers is a goose, because of the noise it makes, but thinks Bernie is taking this game unusually seriously, so actually thinks about it. 

“An elephant,” she says. Doesn’t say that it’s because an elephant never forgets, that forgetting is the hardest thing to live through. What she says instead is, “Loved Babar when I was growing up.”

“What’s your perfect date?” Bernie asks, still holding Serena’s hand, still looking at Serena’s face searchingly, like she can never learn enough about her, like she wants to know everything.

“Oh, I don’t know. This? Can I say this?” Serena says, gesturing around to Bernie and the bedroom, encompassing everything. “Though I wouldn’t mind if the interrogation wasn’t a part of it.” 

“I want you to know you can tell me anything,” Bernie says seriously. “Sometimes you give me answers but there’s something behind the answer you don’t say.” Serena isn’t in the mood for this, reaches for the remote to turn the sound back on, but Bernie stills her hand. “You don’t have to say anything tonight. We can be done answering questions.”

“You still have to tell me your perfect date,” Serena says, feeling out of sorts, uncomfortable. She wants to reclaim the joviality, the frivolity, anything but this. She trusts Bernie, loves her, but doesn’t share her pain with anyone, keeps it inside behind tall strong walls and heavily guarded doors. Someday she’ll open them to Bernie, she thinks. She hopes.

“I think I’d like to take you in a helicopter,” Bernie says and Serena doesn’t know if that’s the genuine answer or if it’s what Bernie’s saying to lighten the mood. “Holby is pretty from the sky, I bet.” 

“Well, I think I’d let you,” Serena answers, and then turns the volume back up.

\- - -

Bernie’s moved in, for a week now, but it’s the first night they go to sleep at the same time, the first night they’ve left work together. There’s no awkwardness about brushing their teeth or changing into pajamas, there’s nothing new. Living together has changed nothing, it wasn’t some magical step in their relationship that changed everything or gave it a new shine.

Not that Serena isn’t exceedingly happy to know that Bernie will come to this house every day for the rest of her life, or that they’ll share the same bed, or that she’ll get to scold Bernie about leaving coffee grounds in the sink, and Bernie will make snide remarks about the ridiculousness of having a chart for loading the dishwasher.

Serena gets under the covers first, Bernie slides in afterwards. They meet in the middle of the bed, like they always do. Bernie’s hand finds the dip in Serena’s waist, anchors there like her fingers are magnetized to the spot. Serena slides her foot between Bernie’s calves, a habit she’s fallen into from the very first night they shared a bed. 

“Good day,” Bernie says, sleepily, her eyes tired but happy, her mouth that small secret smile. She squeezes Serena ever so slightly, making her flinch, ticklish around her midsection, a fact Bernie exploits almost every night.

“Good day,” Serena agrees, kisses Bernie on the mouth, the mint of their toothpaste on her lips.

Serena’s eyes drift close, she’s tired, sleeps easily. It’s the middle of the night when she wakes again, doesn’t open her eyes, but can feel Bernie’s restlessness, can sense her sleeplessness. Bernie has nightmares, she knows, not often, not regularly, but they still happen, and there’s no way out of them, they just have to get through them. So Serena lets her eyes open, reaches out for Bernie, pulls her close.

“Hush, hush. I’ve got you,” she murmurs into Bernie’s hair, sweaty and tangled. Bernie’s eyes open, a little wild, a little wide. “You’re safe, you’re here. I’ve got you.” She never wants to stop reminding Bernie that she’s here for her, that she will always be next to Bernie, for as long as Bernie wants.

“I’m good, I’m good, I’m awake,” Bernie says, a little shakily, but doesn’t move away from Serena, lets herself be held. 

“A bad one?” Serena asks, carding her fingers through Bernie’s hair, her mouth against Bernie’s scalp. She thinks this is how she used to hold her daughter, when she woke up in the night with a scream that the boogeyman was after her.

“Not the scariest,” Bernie says matter-of-factly. She’s calming in Serena’s arms, Serena can feel her heart rate slowing, her body coming down from its shock.

“What’s your scariest experience?” Serena asks, the question coming unbidden before she can stop it.

Bernie is silent for a moment and Serena doesn’t know if it’s because she’s thinking of an answer or because she won’t answer.

“This is,” she says after a while, a long enough pause that Serena’s eyes have gotten heavy again and she thinks she might fall asleep holding Bernie close. Serena doesn’t ask for an explanation, thinks she understands it. There’s so much between them, friendship and work and love and they are everything to each other. The thought of losing Bernie makes her heart drop, makes her stomach hurtle with nerves, makes her eyes prick with tears. 

“I know,” Serena says. “I know. I’ve got you.” She kisses the top of Bernie’s head, her hand still running through Bernie’s hair, working out the tangles. She holds Bernie close, as close as her heart.

\- - - 

The morning light filters in through the blinds and Serena blinks her eyes open, sleep crusted at the corners of her lashes. She rubs at the flecks, realizes Bernie is still tucked in close, her head under Serena’s chin.

She lets Bernie sleep, thinks there’s no reason to wake her, not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, i'm up for prompts on [tumblr](http://belligerently.tumblr.com/ask) but also as always, it feels like tradition to end this installment with "who knows???"


	5. she’s gonna wish on stars and touch the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for [fortunatefolly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatefolly) because she was the inspiration for this and then said "write it."
> 
> you know sometimes when you're joking back and forth with someone about a fic idea and it's light-hearted and great and then you start writing it and you're like "BUT WHAT IF IT'S ALMOST ZERO DIALOGUE AND ALL NARRATION AND FEELINGS" and so that's what happened here. 
> 
> Anyway, Bernie's a mess in the kitchen and she and Jason take care of each other, and Serena comes back and other stuff happens but not a lot!

Bernie moves into Serena’s house. She’s half-living there already, a spare toothbrush in the bathroom, pajamas tucked up under a pillow, spare shirts in the closet. But with Serena gone, out of the city, she asks Bernie to take care of things, water the plants, weed the garden, make sure no burglars pilfer her extensive Shiraz collection. Bernie is happy to oblige, happy to give Serena whatever she wants, feels like this is further proof that Serena is coming back.

So she ends her lease - it was month-to-month anyway. Gets her full security deposit back, sells her furniture to eager F1s, boxes up her books, bags up her clothes, brings it all to Serena’s house over the course of a few days, leaves most of it in the spare room. She still feels like a guest, even though she’s been encouraged to take full advantage of the space. 

One afternoon, she pokes in the attic, finds a box of cookbooks with handwriting that isn’t Serena’s in the margins, thinks they must’ve belonged to Mrs. McKinnie. She brings a few down to the kitchen with her, decides she should start trying to cook for herself more often, especially now that she has a much better space in which to prepare food. She leaves most of the other spaces in the house alone, Jason’s room is mostly empty, just a few odds and ends he’s left behind in case he ever wants to visit for the night again. The door to Elinor’s room has been shut for months now and Bernie doesn’t dare open it. The sitting room, where Bernie spends most of her time, is perfectly Serena, a little frumpy and rigid, but warm and comfortable all the same. She wraps herself in the throw blanket after busy days, smells the detergent Serena uses, thinks she can maybe smell her shampoo too.

Jason starts coming over once a week, says Serena is worried that Bernie isn’t taking care of herself. He tells Bernie he’s taken up the mantle of man of the house, at least on Thursdays. She doesn’t mind the company, is glad to have him there, even if he does beat her at Scrabble and shushes her when she tries to make a comment during a documentary on military munitions. 

Thursdays become a day when other people start to drift home with Bernie too. She’s never been one for hosting, not really, but there’s something about having a whole empty house to rattle around in that makes her want to fill it with people. Morven gets invited first, the person Bernie feels closest to on the ward. There’s a bit of awkwardness as they try to get their bearings in a new setting, and then Jason arrives to break the tension. They order takeaway from his favorite place and sit around the dining room table, and it feels a bit like having a family. 

Morven brings Jasmine along the next week, Raf invites himself over as well. Bernie doesn’t mind. She decides she likes the hustle and bustle of it all, doesn’t even mind washing the dishes after (though sometimes they sit in the sink for a few days. It’s usually when she gets a text from Jason reminding her to do the clean-up that spurs her into action). She doesn’t eat very well on nights that aren’t Thursday, even with the cookbooks and the idea that she should. There’s something about living alone that makes it hard to find the will to care about cooking a meal. 

There’s a day when Dom’s eyes are red, and Bernie sees an angry purple bruise and without thinking, she says, “Right, you’re coming to mine tonight.” Doesn’t even remember that it’s Thursday, that her house will be full of people, until they let themselves in the front door. Dom’s eyes get big, and Bernie starts to apologize, feeling terrible. But he stops her with a hand on her arm and says, “It’s fine.” 

And it turns out that it is fine, that he loses himself in companionship and laughter, something he’d been so separate from. Bernie moves around the boxes and bags that she’s still got in the spare room, makes up the bed for him, tries to think what Serena would do in this situation. Thinks Serena wouldn’t have forgotten it was Thursday, for starters. 

When everyone’s filtered out, even Jason, Bernie makes tea for them both, settles herself in on the couch with an invitation to join if he’s up for it, otherwise permission to make himself at home upstairs. She thinks she’s learning how to do this, how to be a caretaker, how to be domestic. Thinks it’s finally time she got the hang of it. 

Dom settles on the couch next to her, doesn’t say anything, which suits Bernie fine. She lets the silence cover them like a blanket, a reminder to Dom that he doesn’t have to anything he’s not ready for. He finishes his tea, sets the cup down on the saucer with a clang louder than he intended, makes as if to apologize but Bernie stops him. “It’s just a teacup,” she says and he gives her the first smile she’s seen all night. 

She sleeps heavily that night, content in the knowledge that she’s done something worthwhile.

\- - -

It’s Jason who points out the sheer fortune Bernie is spending on takeaway. He tells her that the drawer in the kitchen with menus is almost overflowing, reminds her she only needs to keep the most recent menu. He’s started spending more nights at Serena’s (Bernie still can’t think of the house as anything but Serena’s, she’s everywhere in it), splitting his time between Bernie and Alan.

“This is the fourth time we’ve ordered out in the last two weeks, Bernie,” Jason says. “Perhaps it would behoove us to learn how to cook, without Auntie Serena here.” Bernie’s heart lifts at the suggestion, at the idea that he wants to do something with her. She nods, because she feels tears welling up behind her eyelids and thinks crying would only make them both uncomfortable.

Bernie finds a recipe for shepherd’s pie, digs through Serena’s recipe box, sees her handwriting on the worn cards, feels a pang in her chest as she imagines Serena bending over her kitchen table, carefully writing out measurements and instructions, her writing smooth and sure and beautiful. It’s almost too much for Bernie, but she soldiers on for Jason, finds the recipe she’s looking for, and a few she’s not, and they go out to buy the necessary supplies. 

She makes a big meal of spaghetti bolognese for the Thursday night crowd, Jason willing to try this new meal that Bernie is making. She gets tomato sauce everywhere, staining a wooden spoon, the backsplash behind the sink, even a spot on the wall. She burns some of the noodles, managing to leave a smoke stain on the ceiling. She’s a bit of a disaster, but it all comes out in the end, tastes well enough. She grates enough parmesan to cover up up any bad bits. Only slices her finger once on the sharp edge of the grater. 

Jason regards the kitchen after everyone’s left, arches his eyebrow in a gesture that so reminds Bernie of Serena. He doesn’t say anything, though, just “good night,” and “Alan’s here to bring me to his house.” There’s some show on tonight that he wants to watch with Alan, a disruption in his usual Thursday night sleepover, but he planned it well in advance, waves to Bernie without a care in the world, and she’s left to clean up the mess alone.

The next time Jason comes over, he says, “I don’t think cooking went well, Bernie. I’ll look into one of those meal delivery services. Then you don’t have to worry about grocery shopping. You’re terrible at it.” Bernie would deny it, but it’s horribly true; she never sticks to her list and often forgets the most important things like milk or bread. Jason refuses to go with her because she doesn’t seem to have any organization to her shopping, taking off down aisles as the mood strikes her, and he prefers to follow the grid of the store, up and down, up and down, ending at the cashier.

So Jason researches which food service is better, most economical, picks the one for four people, even though Bernie is only one person. “You have people over a lot,” he explains, when she asks. “And you can pack leftovers for lunch. You often forget to eat at work.” She’s gotten used to the way he cares for her, the best way he knows how, kind gestures wrapped in unadorned facts. She wonders if she’s even taking care of him at all.

The first food box comes, and it’s a bit of a disaster. Bernie does not have any of the skill in the kitchen that Serena does, manages to melt a rubber spatula when she forgets to move it off the stove, turns on a burner without thinking, the wide edge resting against the coil. She also spills everything, and loses control of the food processor. The chicken is crispy and black and tastes of nothing but ash, and the sink is full of dishes that she used before realizing a different vessel would be more appropriate. Jason suggests they call a cleaning service to come by while they’re at work the next day, and that he take the lead for the next recipe. 

Bernie doesn’t know about any rules regarding Jason and cooking, doesn’t know if he and Serena ever cooked together, doesn’t know if this is something new he’s trying, if he’s going to be brave for her, if he’s just decided this will be his new _thing_ , replacing World’s Strongest Man or military documentaries. Thinks maybe he has room to do more than she might guess. He always surprises her.

Jason is better at it than she is, more methodical, a great attention to detail. Bernie doesn’t even pretend she’s teaching, just tells him which measuring cups to use for what, and how to change the speed on the blender. He makes a show of checking the smoke detectors before he starts cooking, says he just wants to make sure the house doesn’t burn down, that Bernie can’t be entirely trusted in that arena. She shrugs, and pours herself a finger of scotch, sits in the kitchen nook and pretends her presence is necessary.

They rearrange the kitchen, finding they use things differently than Serena ever did. Bernie finds it strange that the room she would make her own would be this one, the room synonymous with domesticity and womanhood, the room Serena would never expect. Jason organizes the spices alphabetically, says it helps he find the things he needs more easily. Bernie moves the glasses to the cabinet by the sink, always reaching for a cup to fill with water in the middle of the night, always a little put out at how far they are from the faucet. So she changes it. Pots and pans find new homes, it’s quite a project, but they make the kitchen suit their needs, how they use it, and find pleasure in the labor of it.

Jason starts to compile their own recipe book, the ones they like, types them up on his computer, binds them, is able to add to it when they find a new favorite. Bernie likes that they have this.

\- - -

Bernie starts to notice the messes she’s made, the more permanent ones. The burn mark on the inside of a cabinet door - she doesn’t know how that one got there, exactly, but definitely knows she’s the one to blame. There’s still an only slightly faded tomato sauce stain on the wall by the back door. There’s the smoke mark on the ceiling. She finds a scuff mark on the wall of the sitting room, can’t remember making that one. She thinks Serena won’t take kindly to the abuses her house has suffered.

So she keeps her eye out for things to hang on the walls. Buys a frame at the store, likes the picture that comes with it enough that she hangs the whole thing on the wall, covering tomato. She passes a street artist, finds a slightly garish painting of Venice that she hangs to hide the scuff mark. She buys paint and a roller to cover the ceiling, buys the wrong color, so there’s just a small circular patch that’s just a little bit of a harsher white in the middle of the softer ceiling. 

She notices a line from a Sharpie on the wall of her office - their office. Finds an illustration of roller skating sheep at a thrift shop that matches the color of the walls well enough. She doesn’t think about what Serena will say when she comes back, thinks instead that she’s making this house her own, making their shared spaces a little more hers. Proof that she’s staying, that she’ll be here as long as Serena wants her.

Jason makes no comment on the artwork that has appeared in the home, but Bernie knows he’s cataloging it away, knows he’s noticed. Dom comes over more often now too, and takes one look at the Venice picture and says “That’s shite.” Bernie just shrugs. She likes it well enough, doesn’t have much of an eye for art anyway. It’s bright and loud, and fits right over the mark on the wall, so it stays. 

Bernie doesn’t think about it too much, but does notice that she’s collected quite a collection of young doctors that come by the house. She thinks of that old Rudolph movie, the Island of Misfit Toys, thinks that’s maybe what she’s made here. Serena is always the more motherly of the two of them, the one who is ready with advice and a warm hand on the shoulder, with kind eyes and a beautiful smile. Bernie is the one who listens and takes time before giving an answer, who lets everyone get a little closer because she never had to fight for respect the way Serena did. So they come over to the house, because it’s Bernie’s house for now, and they feel like they can. 

Sometimes she finds sleeping F1s on the couches when she wakes up, the spare room occupied by Dom, Jason in his room. Elinor’s room always stays shut and locked away, never touched, never visited. She thinks she’s found a new kind of family, wonders if Charlotte would come over for dinner some night. Sends a text to ask. Gets a yes for an answer and starts fretting about what she’ll cook. 

“Well if you want to impress her, you shouldn’t do the cooking at all,” Jason says plainly, and flips through their recipe book to find the one he wants. “Does Charlotte like to cook? Maybe she’d want to help.” Bernie is surprised at the suggestion, how much it rings true. She sends another message, and Charlotte gives the affirmative, even offers to bring dessert too, and Bernie can’t stop from beaming. She and her daughter are chipping away at their relationship, trying to scrape away the years of sullen silence and abandonment issues, to uncover the heart of it again, open it up to the sun. 

Jason goes grocery shopping with Alan, leaves Bernie at home to fret with a glass of scotch. Charlotte shows up before he’s back and Bernie welcomes her with a hug, awkward and strange, something they’re still trying to get the hang of. They’re both tall and lanky, long limbs and bony elbows, and they both want to reach for the shoulders, so there’s always a negotiation of arms before they are properly embracing. 

The ingredients arrive shortly after and all three of them troop dutifully to the kitchen, Alan deferring his invitation for another night. Bernie is put on chopping duty, with strict instructions to watch her fingers, and Jason makes Charlotte laugh loudly, a honk, just like her mother, by telling stories of her cooking disasters. Bernie’s heart swells at the sight of it. Charlotte boils water for pasta, drops some oil into the pan, explains to Jason that it helps keep the noodles from sticking. He makes a note to look into that later, can’t believe he didn’t know it sooner. He looks at Bernie accusingly and she just says, “I don’t know what I’ve done to lead you to believe I have any special insight into cooking.” 

Jason admits his mistake in a perfunctory way, says perhaps Charlotte should have a look at their cookbook, make notes in the margins with any other tips and tricks that she knows. Charlotte smiles at that suggestion, but demurs, says adding oil to pasta water is all she really knows. 

“Where was this photo taken?” she asks, later, pointing at the frame by the door, when all the ingredients have been chopped and added, the pasta cooking merrily on the stove, the sauce sizzling pleasantly on a back burner. 

“Dunno,” Bernie says, feeling embarrassed about it for the first time. “Came with the frame.” It’s a black and white photo of a daisy field, a woman looking back over her shoulder, smiling bright at the camera. 

“Mom,” Charlotte admonishes, and Bernie thinks she’ll never tire of hearing that word from Charlotte’s mouth, no matter the tone accompanying it. Bernie just shrugs and Charlotte lets the subject drop. Then it’s time to eat, and they sit in the kitchen, nestled around the table in the nook, steam from the dishes rising, making their faces pink and shiny, happy. 

Charlotte tells Jason how good it is, and he agrees that it is. Bernie asks her about school, about her life, and she can see Charlotte struggling to figure out what it is she wants to say, how hard it is to keep things from her mother, no matter the nature of their relationship. But Bernie gets the bare bones edition of things, and supposes it’s no more than she deserves. Still, she thinks this dinner was a success, and thanks Jason for thinking of the idea. Invites Charlotte back for Thursday dinners, whenever she wants.

 

\- - - - -

 

Serena comes back on a Thursday, earlier than reported, to surprise Bernie. She has to park in front of the neighbor’s house because there are cars in front of her own, in the driveway, too. Wonders what it is Bernie has gotten up to in her absence. They talk, but not much. Just texts to make sure the other one is okay, happy enough. They’ve saved the details for when they’re together again.

She lets herself in the front door, and is greeted with lights and noise and laughter, sees familiar faces, smiling and bright. There are dishes on the coffee table, glasses without coasters beneath them, paper napkins balled up on the floor. Serena can’t believe it’s her house, for a moment, stands poleaxed in the doorway. Morven is the first one to register who has walked through the door, sets her bowl on the table and rushes over, envelopes Serena in a hug and says “Welcome back” in her ear, soft and sweet.

Jasmine waves from the corner, and Cameron is there, too. Serena guesses he’s come back for a bit, wonders if it has anything to do with her absence. She sees Dom leaning against the kitchen door, talking to someone - Bernie, she guesses, and makes her way through her house, feeling like a stranger, a guest. She taps Dom’s shoulder and he turns, mouth open, doesn’t have his bearings enough to hug her before she arches his eyebrow and gestures him to make room for her to enter the kitchen. “Of - of course, Ms. Campbell,” he says and ducks out of the way. 

Bernie’s head is in the refrigerator and, wonder of wonders, Jason is the one at the stove, stirring a big pot of soup. He looks up at her entrance, his face exploding into that unbridled, unencumbered joy she loves so much. “Auntie Serena!” he exclaims, and hugs her, the stiff hug she’s used to from him, and she hugs him back, smells the aroma from his cooking on him. Over Jason’s shoulder, she sees Bernie bang her head on the top of the fridge at Jason’s greeting, then pull herself out of the appliance, standing straight, rubbing at her scalp, her face slack in amazement at the woman in front of her.

“I’m back,” she says, when she’s disentangled herself from Jason, stands in front of Bernie, unadorned and apprehensive, offering only herself and hoping that’s enough. It is, it seems, because Bernie launches herself at Serena, enfolds her in her arms, squeezes so tightly that Serena can barely breathe, but doesn’t mind it either. Bernie’s nose nuzzles into Serena’s neck, her breath warm and wet at the nape. She smells of scotch and Serena’s soap, and it makes Serena hold her all the tighter. 

And then they kiss, like no time has passed, like they do it every day, like they hadn’t been apart. It’s quick, it’s gentle, it’s easy. It’s confirmation that they’re still _them_ despite everything, despite it all. They’ve both left, now, and they’ve both come back, and they’ve both arrived at the same conclusion, that this, that _they_ , are it, are everything.

“What’s all this, then?” Serena asks, gesturing to everything, her house, the people, the food. Bernie smiles her small, secret smile, lifts a shoulder in a shrug. “It’s Thursday.” Serena thinks there’s more to it, there’s a story to tell, and finds that she can’t wait to hear it. Bernie has made her house - their house - a home, a gathering place, and she finds herself warming at the thought. At how well Bernie has done. 

They go into the living room, Jason shooing them from the kitchen with an admonishment that they’ll only distract him. Bernie assures Serena he’s fine, that he does this all the time. He’s told her as much, over texts, their weekly phone call, but she found it hard to believe until she saw it with her own eyes, thinks he’s grown so much while she’s been gone.

Serena’s hand is in Bernie’s, their grip strong. There’s room on a couch, if they squish together. Serena feels a little out of sorts - she’d wanted to surprise Bernie, to have a night of just them before they let anyone else in. She thinks she should’ve called ahead, maybe, tried to be a little less spontaneous. But Bernie nudges her towards the stairs, towards the bedroom, towards privacy, and Serena thinks Bernie wants time alone with her as well. “They’ll be all right without me,” she says and they leave the raucous crowd behind, the bedroom door shutting behind them, the noise from below dampened. 

They sit next to each other on the bed, unmade, wrinkled sheets. Bernie apologizes a little, but Serena waves it off. Bernie was never going to take care of her home exactly as she would. Bernie’s made the right side of the bed hers, a pair of reading spectacles folded on top of a worn copy of _Eat, Pray, Love_ , and Serena wonders if Bernie thinks that’s what she’s been getting up to while she’s been away. She did have wine, she did eat good food, but she hardly sat around meditating - that was never her thing. She’s found her inner peace in other ways, found how to be okay again, and now she’s back. She’s here.

They hold hands, Serena comforted by their proximity, by the ability to be able to reach out and touch Bernie. This is what she hoped for, longed for, worked for. To be with Bernie, nothing but their future in front of them, all their baggage packed neatly, but not forgotten. She rubs her thumb against the back of Bernie’s hand, nestles ever closer to her, their shoulders touching, their thighs, their arms, their feet. She feels Bernie in this room, it smells like her, it’s messy, rumpled, and _her_. Serena wonders how their lives will mingle, now.

And then she notices a new painting on the wall, small, but surprisingly obtrusive. The colors stand out, not in a good way, some sort of abstract melange of shapes and Serena doesn’t like it. It’s also in a strange place on the wall, lower than she would have hung it herself. “What’s, ah, what’s that?” she asks, using their joined hands to point at it. 

“Just thought I’d do some decorating,” Bernie answers, but her face is red and Serena doesn’t push it. Asks about the Thursday night tradition instead, and Bernie tells her, how it started with Jason, but then it just grew to be more and more and now it’s this. She says something about an Island of Misfit Toys and Serena laughs, because she knows how that feels, thinks that describes her Holby family better than anything could, hopes there’s still room for her in this latest incarnation. 

Bernie tells her how Jason suggested they cook together and Serena nods, says Jason filled her on that bit. Says that she was worried about Bernie taking care of herself without a meddling co-lead to nag at her all day. Bernie squeezes their hands and tries to reassure Serena that she’s been okay. But they’ve neither really been okay, just passing the time. 

Serena hears about the cookbook Bernie and Jason have made, is so happy that they’ve taken care of each other, feels bittersweet that she’s not a part of it, not yet. Bernie reassures her that she can add recipes of her own, if she wants. She doesn’t think Jason will mind. 

Serena’s eyes are heavy, she’s been traveling all day. Bernie slips away, says she’s just going to say goodnight to everyone, says Dom will probably be spending the night, and Serena nods sleepily, curling on her side as Bernie shuts the door behind her.

She’s woken a bit later by an insistent Bernie, holding out pajamas and a fresh toothbrush. “You didn’t come in with luggage,” she says by way of explanation, and Serena takes both, breathes in the scent of the flannel bottoms and the hoodie. Bernie’s been using her same detergent, they smell like home. She washes her face, wipes off her makeup, runs a hand through her sleep-rumpled hair. 

Bernie’s getting changed when she come back in the room, her back to the door, pale and bare in the low light from the bedside lamp. Serena can see her freckles. But she says nothing, just slides into the clothes Bernie gave her, thinks how this is a mirror of the first time Bernie ever slept over, thinks that now it’s just as much Bernie’s house as her own. They move together in bed, just wanting to be close. Bernie kisses Serena again, her mouth open and insistent. Serena feels loved and cared for and slips her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, swallows the moan that comes in response. She thinks that Dom and Jason are just down the hall, after all. 

They don’t do anything more than kiss, light fondling. She’s relearning Bernie’s shape, her body, her freckles, her moles, everything. She doesn’t turn off the lamp, just stares at Bernie in dim light, memorizes the look of contentment on her face, the hope. Bernie traces Serena’s face, her nose, her chin, the creases at the side of her mouth. She thinks Bernie is relearning her too.

\- - -

They wake up together, still close, their breath mixing on the pillow they’re both sharing. Serena wipes the crust of sleep from her eyes, arches her back ever so slightly, her chest rubbing against Bernie’s at the movement. Bernie’s arms snake around her, pulling Serena even closer and Serena lets herself be held, lets herself treasure this moment, this feeling. 

They walk downstairs together, the doors to the spare room and Jason’s room both open, the beds both empty. There’s a mess on every surface, dishes and glasses, and Serena can only think of how long it’ll take to clean. Jason is watching some recorded game show on TV. Bernie tells Serena she can join him, says she’ll do the cleaning herself. Serena looks at Bernie, to make sure, and finds herself pushed towards the sofa. So she sits with her nephew, their first time alone together. She feels as nervous as the first day she met him.

It’s Countdown on the TV, something familiar and easy, and Serena finds herself settling into their old routine. She’s better at the words than the numbers, sometimes ties Jason with the length of the word, but he always trounces her in the maths portion. He doesn’t keep score, not this time, says he’s giving her a break, since she probably hasn’t played in a while.

He’s letting her back in, more easily than she might’ve thought. She wonders if he can tell that she’s changed. She’s not back the same person she was _before_ , but she’s a newer, better, cleaner version, a happier version. A wiser person. When the episode ends, she says she’s going to help Bernie with the last of the dishes, walks behind the couch and lets her hand rest briefly on Jason’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’re back, Auntie Serena,” he says, without looking away from the screen, and Serena flushes with pleasure.

On her way into the kitchen, she notes a street painting, probably sold for ten pounds, bright oranges and deep blues, Venice at night. Thinks she may have to guide Bernie into a different taste in art. This one is also hung at an odd height, and it’s slightly crooked. She straightens it just slightly, her touch light, gentle. She’s glad Bernie’s tried to make this place her own, she supposes. She’ll have to get used to the ways in which Bernie’s chosen to do so, that’s all.

There’s a new piece of art in the kitchen, but Serena is distracted from examining it too closely because she immediately notices that the glasses are in a different cabinet, wonders what else has been changed. Bernie’s back is to her, bending over the sink, scrubbing at a pan, yellow rubber gloves up to her elbows, her sleeves pulled up, her hair curling out of its ponytail at the steam from the hot water.

Serena leans against the opposite counter, takes in the sight of Bernie in her kitchen, catalogs it for her memory, wants to be able to think back on this forever, the moment she first felt truly at home since coming through her front door last night. But she breaks the moment, grabs a towel from the table in the nook, starts to dry the dishes. Starts to put them away, but is halted in her progress as she has to learn the layout of everything. 

“Jason and I moved things,” Bernie says, and Serena can’t fault them for that. She just opens doors till she finds what she needs, learning quickly. She flicks on the radio, starts humming along to the music, swaying her hips. Bernie lets the water out of the sink, a loud gurgle filling the space, and leans back, her hands against the sink, her hip resting between them, and watches Serena. And Serena lets herself be watched, just moves in time, finds a rhythm. And then she sees the woman laughing alone in a field of daisies and stops.

“Bernie, what is this? It looks like it came with the frame,” she says, poking at it. Bernie’s face is bright red now, but she’s saved from any real answer by Jason’s arrival in the kitchen. He asks if Serena is fine with how they rearranged everything, shows her how he’s put the spices in alphabetical order. Bernie leaves them alone, and Serena thinks she’s trying to give them the space to rebuild whatever it was that was broken when Serena left. 

She doesn’t know if she should apologize, she’s done enough of that when they spoke on the phone, enough that Jason told her stop, that he was tired of hearing it, that he wasn’t mad, just disappointed, and she feels the same way as she did when her mother said those words. She just wants to earn his trust back, wants to show him she’s not going to be a bully, that she’s the Auntie Serena he loves. She knows it will take time. 

\- - -

The three of them spend the day together, Countdown and a lunch of leftovers on the back patio. And then Serena asks about the artwork again, says she’s glad Bernie’s taken an interest in interior decorating. “There’s not much of a theme, though,” she says carefully, because she doesn’t want to offend, doesn’t want to discourage Bernie from feeling like this is her home still, like she can’t have everything the way she likes it just because Serena’s come back.

“Oh, Auntie Serena,” Jason says, “She’s not interested in art, she’s just covering up her mistakes.” Serena laughs, loudly, her whole body shaking, because of course that’s it. Of course that’s what Bernie has done. Bernie’s eyes are wide, she looks a mixture between petrified at Serena’s reaction and cross at Jason’s indiscretion. 

“Come show me,” Serena says, standing and holding out a hand to Bernie, and invitation, her eyes still bright with laughter. Bernie sheepishly takes hold, lets herself be pulled up. Serena takes the Venice painting off the hook, and sees the scuff mark, looks at Bernie with an eyebrow raised. Bernie just shrugs. “I honestly don’t know,” she says, and Serena just smiles, doesn’t hang the painting back up. 

She sees the tomato sauce in the kitchen, lets her finger drift across it, thinks it’s an homage to Bernie’s journey in this home. Bernie points up at the ceiling, says she thought it would be a bit more obvious what she was doing if she hung a painting up there, and Serena thinks she’s feeling more comfortable now, less embarrassed. They walk through the house together, and Serena can really see all the ways in which Bernie has made herself a home here, and doesn’t worry that they’ll be able to muddle through this together.

“Take a couple days off, let’s paint the whole house, every room,” Serena says, and she means it. Thinks Bernie has probably earned a few days reprieve, would be lying if she pretended like she didn’t want uninterrupted days with Bernie stretching before her. 

Jason picks out a shade of blue for his room, agrees to stay away until they’re done, says he doesn’t care for the scent of paint fumes anyway. There’s yellow for the kitchen, pale and light, that will look lovely in the morning sun. A red for the dining room, bold and deep, like a Shiraz, a cream for the sitting room. There’s a celery green for their bedroom, and a soft eggshell for the spare room. Serena pauses at the door to Elinor’s room, holds the handle for a moment, then opens the door, dust wafting in the movement. “Blue for here too, I think,” she says, her voice breaking slightly. Elinor’s comforter is still on the bed, her pictures still taped to the wall, boxes of her things still sitting there. Bernie asks if she should’ve packed it up but Serena waves the suggestion away. “I’ll do it,” she says, “It’ll be good for me.” Then she amends herself, lets Bernie in. “We can do it together.”

\- - -

They buy the paint, the primer, the rollers, the tape for the edges, the tarps to protect the furniture. They’ll start at the top of the house, work their way down. Windows open, the weather warm and breezy. Serena plays music while they paint, cajoles Bernie into dancing. She ties a bandana around Bernie’s hair, keeps it back and paint-free. She’s wearing an old pair of overalls, leftover from her post-pregnancy days, comfortable and worn and she doesn’t care if they get covered in green, or blue, or red, or anything. 

Serena works slowly, perfection dictating her moves. Bernie is better at wide swipes, the big swaths of empty wall. She paints a B, a heart, an S and Serena laughs, takes a picture on her phone, then Bernie paints over it, to the rhythm of the music. They work in tandem, sometimes, each taking a half of the wall, meeting in the middle. 

On the second day, Serena puts a hand to her forehead, feigning faintness, says the paint fumes are getting to her. Bernie slants her eyes at Serena, chuckles, and flicks her paintbrush at Serena, dotting her paint splots. “A Jackson Pollack,” she crows and Serena retaliates by painting a stripe down Bernie’s bare arm. There’s little pretense that actual work will get done, as Bernie dips her brush in the paint and splatters it again, a particularly large spot landing in the center of Serena’s forehead. She crosses her eyes to try to see it, bites at her lip, then walks toward Bernie, like a jungle cat, moving her to the corner, where the paint is still wet, boxing her in, the paint smearing on her shoulders, on her vest, on her backside. She puts her hands on either side of Bernie’s head, getting them wet with paint, too, and kisses Bernie, long and deep and hard. 

Bernie’s hands go around Serena, hefting her up, holding her close. She unbuckles one side of Serena’s overalls, then the other, sliding them down her frame, sliding the t-shirt beneath them up, only Serena’s knickers below. Serena nibbles into Bernie’s neck, avoids the paint, finds it a challenge to find the clean places, bites into her skin, knows she’s going to leave a mark.

She braces herself again, her hands back on the wall, Bernie still backed in the corner, her eyes glinting, dark with want, and she wraps a hand behind Serena’s head and pulls her lips up - Serena can feel her neck wet with paint, knows it’s going to be in her hair, doesn’t have any impulse in her to care, because she’s pushing at Bernie’s jeans now, she’s been without this for long enough.

They pick up old habits quickly, working separately but in harmony. Bernie’s hands push aside Serena’s damp knickers, curling her fingers inside. Serena gasps at the contact, does the same to Bernie, one finger, then two, then three, Bernie is so ready for her. Serena ruts against Bernie’s hand, trying to goad her into a faster pace, while Bernie, angled for a challenge, tries to slow Serena’s fingers. There’s a small fight for dominance, they’re both competitive. They both win and they both lose, finding a common ground, their limbs tangled and sweaty, their free hands clinging to each other.

Serena shudders into her orgasm, drops her head against Bernie’s shoulder, turns her face into Bernie’s neck, lets herself relax a little while she still moves her hand, her thumb, slides her thigh against Bernie’s too. And then Bernie lets out a little yelp, a sweet noise that always surprises Serena, and she feels the wetness on her fingers, sticky and warm, and brings her hand to her mouth to taste it, licking her hand clean. Bernie watches, eyes still dark, pulls at Serena’s hand before she can lick at her index finger, and pulls the digit into her own mouth instead. Serena’s stomach flips at the contact, at Bernie’s tongue swirling around her finger, tasting them both. 

And then they hear Jason calling from downstairs. Serena freezes, grabs her hand from Bernie’s mouth, fumbles with her overalls. She sees they’re covered in paint, she’s covered in paint. Bernie’s entire backside is the white of the primer. Bernie just shrugs, rights her clothes, straightens the bandana tied in her hair, slaps Serena on the rear. “No way to hide, Campbell,” she says.

Serena likes it when Bernie calls her Campbell, uses her last name like she’s a member of her army unit, or a player on her team. It makes her feel like they’re on the same side, like they’re working together. Like they’re united.

So they walk downstairs to Jason together, both a mess, both embarrassed. He has a bag full of groceries, says he thought that they might have forgotten to go shopping, that Alan agreed it was a good idea to bring them some supplies. He looks them up and down and Serena feels like she’s been caught by a parent. Bernie’s holding her hand, her mouth tight in the way it gets when she’s trying to hold back laughter.

“I’m not sure you understand the point of painting,” he says and Bernie buries her face in Serena’s shoulder to muffle her snickers, unable to control them any longer. Serena pats haphazardly at Bernie’s head, can only shrug with her other shoulder to Jason and smile. He puts the groceries away and then suggests they try to find some sort of germane home-decorating show to get them moving on the right track. Bernie gamely tries to keep her face straight, doesn’t really succeed.

They watch something called Love It or List It, Jason says it’s boring, but that he hopes they get some good tips from it. Alan picks him up, takes him back to his house, and Bernie and Serena are alone on their tarp-covered sofa, Bernie leaning into Serena, a welcome weight.

“What do you think?” Bernie asks after a bit, gestures to the house. “Love it? Or list it?” It’s cheesy, it’s silly, saccharine, even. But Serena looks around her, looks at the woman next to her, sees the scuff mark still on the wall - they haven’t primed this floor yet. She sees Bernie’s shoes, haphazard by the door, the breakfast dishes still on the dining room table, a mug full of cold coffee still on the table in front of them. She nuzzles into Bernie’s scalp, the rough material of the bandana abrasive against the soft skin of her nose.

“Not a hard decision at all,” she says, and just holds on tight.


	6. because you got me hypnotized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so [kitnkabootle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kitnkabootle) asked for:  
>  _how about revisiting the lunatic that was obsessed with Bernie. What if he'd seen Serena watching her and took it as a threat in his paranoid state. What if it put Serena in danger and Bernie had to rescue her?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my pal, this was truly a challenge, and one i hope i've born up to for you. you always say the kindest things, and this feels like the least i can do to show you gratitude! so i hope that this fits the bill, and all that. and you are entitled to one free re-prompt because boy howdy i just do not know.

_ Someone’s always watching. There’s no privacy. The police officer at the door. The nurse with the beard. Major Wolfe - she’s safe, but she’s being watched too. Shorter woman, short brown hair. No military training, possibly no self defense training whatsoever. Maybe undercover. Watching Major Wolfe. _

\- - -

Serena has the feeling of being watched. She’s not entirely unused to it, she often will look up throughout her day and catch Bernie’s eyes. She knows Bernie stares at her, knows because she’s often staring back. When Bernie watches her, Serena feels warm, a glow emanating through her body, a flutter in the pit of her stomach. 

This is different, this feeling of being watched. It’s setting her on edge, her jaw tight. She can’t pinpoint who it is that’s looking at her. Fletch and Raf and Morven are all occupied, doing other things, with patients. So she sits at the main desk, works on her charts out there, thinks maybe she’ll be able to spot whoever it is that has their eye on her.

Then Bernie walks in and Serena finds herself distracted, watching the other woman make her way across the ward, long strides, pausing slightly to get a spritz of disinfectant. Scrubs look terrible on everyone, that’s the way of the world, but on Bernie, they look natural. A second skin. Serena wonders if it comes from the habit of wearing a uniform, an outfit she doesn’t have to think about. Her eyes track Bernie’s progress and she doesn’t let herself think about why.

And then Bernie looks over her shoulder, rubbing her hands together to spread the disinfecting gel, catches Serena’s gaze and there’s no way to pretend like she wasn’t staring, so she just smiles and ducks her head quick as she can, looks down at her chart. She can’t help it, sometimes. She feels helplessly drawn to Bernie in a way that scares her, in a way that’s completely new to her. She’s never felt this way with a friend before, but she’s also never had a friend this close, one that she shares this much with. 

Rather than examining anything too closely, she just chalks it up to being best friends, that Bernie has the kind of personality that makes Serena want to impress her, that makes Serena desperately want her approval and her friendship. There are people like that, easily charismatic. Serena looks up through her eyelashes, sees Bernie is still looking at her, feels her neck get warm, her face flush, and then Bernie exits through the double doors and Serena’s attention is snapped back to her paperwork.

\- - -

_ It’s important to know the enemy. Understand the opposition. She watches Major Wolfe - why. She’s a doctor on the ward. Most likely second in command to the Major. Always watching her. Must be an ulterior motive. Must investigate. _

\- - -

“Excuse me?” Serena looks up, always a little wary when a patient is up and about, dragging the saline bag with them. The man is one of Bernie’s patients, requested her specially. His face is rough, bruised and cut, his gaze flicking about the ward, not making direct eye contact, really. If it wasn’t giving off such a nervous, frenetic energy, she’d say he reminded her a little of Jason. 

“You work closely with Major Wolfe?” he asks, looking out at the ward, then down at her.

There’s the flutter in her stomach, she tamps down on the blush that always threatens to rush across her face at the thought of Bernie. She looks down at her papers. “Sometimes.” It’s a lie - she works with Bernie whenever she can. She could say it’s because she’s still learning about her co-lead, how she operates (both figuratively and literally), but that’s a lie, too. She just likes working with Bernie, simple as.

“You haven’t noticed anyone following her around, or -” He’s looking about, waiting for Bernie - Major Wolfe - to come into view. Serena can’t quite blame him, she does that a lot herself. She tries to soften her face, but she’s tense, she’s stressed, and imagines she probably looks a little more pained instead. He’s staring at the police officer stationed outside the patient room, and Serena flicks her gaze towards her, then back to the patient - James, she thinks. He moves away from her, glancing back every so often, and Serena wonders if he’s the one that’s been watching her all day.

James is a forceful reminder of Bernie’s military past, something Serena doesn’t always think about, but when she does - well, she knows she’s always had a bit of a thing for a man in uniform. And then Fletch slides in next to her, asks her about him.

“Seems to have a bit of a Bernie obsession going on,” she says, as if she herself doesn’t have the same problem. But she says it with a smile, unself-conscious and breezy. 

“That’ll be the Major to you,” Fletch corrects and she snaps her head forward, “Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” the obeisance slipping from her tongue easily, wittily, she’s always been good at matching quip for quip. Doesn’t let herself think about saying those same words to Bernie Wolfe, to see the sheepish grin on her face, to see if she blushes. 

Serena is so much freer with her emotions than Bernie, doesn’t keep them bottled up. She smiles and flirts and puts comforting hands on other’s shoulders, she gets angry, too, and scared. And Bernie is stoic, usually, a tall pillar of strength on the ward. Which makes Serena all the more focused on getting underneath her skin, feels like she’s won something every time she earns a smile, a blush, a long, unbroken stare.

\- - -

_ Background surveillance is also important. Must ask nurse and other staff about goings-on. Dr. Campbell’s cover is deep, but I see through it all the same. She keeps looking for Major Wolfe. No immediate threat presented, but will continue to monitor the situation. _

\- - -

Serena can’t help but watch Bernie. Watches her walk across the ward, watches her talk to patients, watches her laugh with Morven. Even in their office, just the two of them, Serena catches herself watching. In surgery together, Bernie obviously affected by the age of the woman on the table, filled with thoughts of her own daughter, Serena watches. She gives Bernie a long, long look, which she matches. They each have a daughter, they each have to stay strong, but they can do that together. Serena watches as Bernie asks for the saw, keeps a careful eye on her throughout the rest of the procedure. Always watching.

She sometimes thinks of it as watching out for Bernie, when she feels like she’s spent too much of her day staring at her best friend. It’s just a way of checking in with her, unobtrusive, nonverbal. She watches Bernie, and when they make eye contact, she tries to convey some kind of nice, supportive message in her gaze, always a little startled by the intensity and meaning of the message she gets back, wonders if Bernie even knows how plain the expressions are on her face.

Serena knows about Bernie’s relationship with Alex, knows Bernie is more interested in women than men, but they’ve never  _ talked _ about it, not really. It’s an untouched subject between them, something Serena feels scared to bring up, like it’s a bomb just waiting to go off. She doesn’t know why it’s so taboo to her, when nothing else between them is. 

(She’s lying to herself - she knows why, but it’s something she’s too scared to touch, something that seems so big and important and terrifying that she’s more content to hide behind delusion and white lies to keep herself afloat)

They finish the surgery, stand next to each other at the sink, their shoulders touching, arms rubbing against each other every time they slide their hands around under the water. They’re used to this, this closeness. It’s how they operate, how they’ve come to exist together. Nothing between them, not ever.

\- - - 

_ Target is alone, Major Wolfe’s position is unknown, but presumed safe. Time to act _ .

\- - -

They walk out of the operating theatre together, Serena keeping a careful, practiced eye on Bernie, making sure she’s all right. And when Bernie shoots her that careful, guarded smile, just a quick quirk of the lips, Serena feels satisfied. Touches Bernie’s arm, squeezes it gently, and begs off to the washroom. 

She’s in the stall when she hears the door open and close, waits to see a pair of shoes walk into her field of vision. Hears the lock to the washroom door click close instead. Hears the sound of an IV drip being rolled on the tile. “Someone in here,” she calls out, flushes the toilet to make her point, and opens the door.

Is face to face with that James character. 

“Hello,” Serena says, all the emergency scenarios she’s been trained for flitting through her mind, that scene from Miss Congeniality popping up unexpectedly. She moves slightly, and James mimics her, follows her, like a cat with a mouse and Serena knows who’s been watching her all day. Her jaw is tight again, she feels her whole body tense. There’s nothing in the room to offer her leverage or any sort of weapon or anything. So she just keeps moving, tries to edge herself towards the door.

She’s been a doctor long enough to have heard stories about what it’s like to be confronted with danger, has been in situations in which her safety has been called into question before, but this. This is different, because she doesn’t know what the escape route is. The only things on her mind are getting the door latch undone, calling Elinor, finding Jason, and seeing Bernie. Those feel like the four most important things to her. Latch. Elinor. Jason. Bernie. They’re going through her head like a mantra. 

James is mumbling things, holding his notebook in one hand, the same hand that’s clenching his IV drip. The other hand is fisted in his hospital gown, holding something, and Serena isn’t sure she wants to find out what. Latch. Elinor. Jason. Bernie. She feels like she’s being circled, wants to keep him moving so she can get to the door. Latch. Elinor. Jason. Bernie. If it’s her last day on Earth, the only three people she cares about seeing before she goes are Elinor. Jason. Bernie. 

She hears a yell from outside the door, Bernie’s voice. A pounding on the door. James moves at her, darts, but is impeded by his medical accoutrements. Serena dodges, easily, though her heart is pounding. Elinor. Jason. Bernie. She sees he has a screwdriver in his hand. She keeps moving, never turning her back. 

And then Bernie, beautiful, strong, willful Bernie, shoulders her way through the door, all her might thrown against it. The door is splintered around the lock, and Bernie is panting, red-faced, her eyes darting around, getting the lay of land, registering first on James, his weapon, and she immediately places herself in front of Serena.

Serena has never been a damsel in distress, wanting to be rescued, but she feels faint at the idea of Bernie stepping in to protect her, grateful for it. She wants to grab her arm, her hand, something, but grabs the edge of the sink instead, grips it tight, her fingers white.

“James, that’s enough. It’s enough, James,” Bernie says. His eyes are wild, and his face is pale. He drops the screwdriver with a clatter, lets himself be drawn away from the restroom by Fletch, throws glances back over his shoulder at Bernie. “It’s enough.” Bernie says it one final time, her voice sharp, commanding. The Major is in front of Serena now, not the co-lead, and James responds to it as such, turns his face away, following orders.

\- - -

“How did you know?” Serena asks. They’re on the floor of the washroom, backs against a closed stall door, legs in front of them, shoulders touching. There’s splinters of door on the floor, a sign that says “OUT OF ORDER” in front of the entrance, and Serena just hasn’t been able to bring herself to leave it yet. So they sat, slid right down to the floor, because it seems Bernie is hesitant to let Serena out of her sight. They’re both still in their scrubs, Bernie’s holding her shoulder a little stiffly and Serena thinks she’ll offer to look at it later. 

“Mm?” Bernie asks. “He warned me about you, earlier in the day. Said you were always watching me.” Bernie is looking studiously in front of her. Serena colors at this, can’t deny it. Just shrugs, her arm rubbing along the length of Bernie’s at the movement. “This is all my fault.” She sounds a bit weepy to Serena’s ears and she looks at Bernie, confusion on her face.

“What?” She fiddles with the collar of her scrubs, and Bernie turns slightly, doesn’t make eye contact just yet.

“Fletch pushed for an assessment and I fobbed him off.” Bernie’s fringe is drifting into her eyes and Serena has to fight the urge to gently brush it aside, keeps her hands to herself. She knows how it feels, to have missed a diagnosis, to have missed the signs. It’s what drives her, has made her into the brilliant diagnostician she is today. She thinks Bernie didn’t have to think about this sort of thing in the field, that she’s still learning what it’s like in the day-to-day of the hospital, how to look at more than just the wounds and the cancers and the blood. “The warning signs were all there,” Bernie says, and Serena sees just how much she’s beating herself up. Wants to reassure her that she’s all right, that she’s not hurt.

“We have an endless stream of broken people coming through our doors,” Serena offers, an olive branch. It’s not exactly an absolution, it’s something different. Bernie doesn’t take it, intent on flaying herself for this misstep. 

“You could’ve...you could’ve…” Bernie’s voice is choked with emotion, her eyes wet, and she still won’t look Serena in the eyes. “You could have been hurt, Serena,” she says, her voice going soft and sibilant on Serena’s name. “And it would have been my fault.” Her voice goes up, weepy and high and Serena’s heart breaks a bit.

She faces Bernie properly, as properly as she can from their seat on the floor. “You are the most fantastic, fearless doctor in this entire hospital.” She wants these to be the right words, the words that make Bernie forgive herself. Serena stares at Bernie’s cheek until finally, finally, Bernie turns to look at her, gives her a soft, sad smile.

And then Bernie’s eyes flick down to Serena’s lips and Serena feels that flutter in the pit of her stomach, that feeling that happens whenever she looks at Bernie too long, and then Bernie’s mouth is on hers, a small, feminine grunt as she takes Serena’s lips, her hand gently - so gently - resting against Serena’s neck. And before Serena can properly react, Bernie’s pulled away, Serena following slowly, trying to recapture the sensation. She opens her eyes, sees fear written across Bernie’s face, all tentative and nervous and skittish.

So she does the only thing she can think of. She grasps Bernie’s arms, kisses her with more bravery than she knew she had, clutches at Bernie’s sleeve, because this, this is what it feels like when Bernie looks at her with those dark eyes and this is what it  _ tastes  _ like and this is what she’s wanted and been too scared to ask for. And it’s here, and it’s happening, and she’s not sure she ever wants it to end.

They move apart eventually - the door’s not locked, after all, and maintenance is, in theory, on their way. Serena touches her forehead to Bernie’s, loathe to end the contact. “So he said I watched you all the time, eh?” she asks, her voice breathy and giddy and she can’t even hide the smile that’s stretching across her face.

“I just said I knew. Because I was watching you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy easter?


	7. we're more than just friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked: "Can you do a little one shot where Serena steals Bernie's holby hoodie all the time because it gives her comfort? I need that in my life!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Canon compliant, my friends

Serena comes up to the roof for a brief respite, to clear her head. She normally has the space to herself, manages to find the time when no one else seems to need an escape either. But she pauses in the door, sees that Bernie Wolfe is leaning against the railing of the short staircase, the cold wind whipping her hair around. An unlit cigarette dangles from her mouth, she flips her lighter on and off, nervous habit. Serena doesn’t know her that well, yet. She’s heard rumors of flashy procedures and showboating, of ego, of a reticence to fit into the world of Keller. All she knows is that Bernie has a passable knowledge of the workings of an automobile, a husband, and a yen for the army.

She wonders if Bernie will mind her peace being disrupted, but Serena isn’t known for her hesitance, and makes the decision to join her, plops herself right down on the steps with a bright, “Hope you don’t mind the company.” It’s colder than she thought, here on the roof. Bernie’s wrapped herself in a Holby hoodie, zipped all the way to her chin, the strings of the hood tied in a neat little bow. Serena thinks she’s never seen anyone wear a hoodie like that, doesn’t comment on it, wishes she had a sweatshirt of her own. Or a blanket.

“Hard day?” Bernie’s low voice is almost lost in the wind, she’s not looking at Serena, just looking at her lighter, the flame wavering. Serena wraps herself in her arms, rubs at her shoulders.

“No more than any other, I suppose. Somedays I just need the fresh air.” The cold air goes straight through her blouse, so lightweight and delicate. Pretty and elegant for walking around the ward, an absolute nightmare when confronted with a blustery day. “You? Must be bad if you’ve picked up your cigarettes again.” Bernie huffs a small chuckle, takes the cigarette from her mouth, holds it between her fingers thoughtfully, then tosses it to the side.

“No worse than usual,” she answers, mirroring Serena’s non-answer. And before Serena can say anything, Bernie’s unzipped her hoodie, holding it out to Serena. “You’re freezing. Pop this on, so the illustrious head of AAU doesn’t catch her death up here.” Serena reaches up to grab it instinctively, then lets it hang from her hand as she realizes what’s just happened. She smiles a thanks to Bernie as she slides her arms into the sleeves, pulls one side tight across her body.

She can smell Bernie on the hoodie, the clean, perfunctory smell of standard bar soap, mixed with the fresh linen scent of detergent. There’s a hint of cigarette smoke, of coffee. It’s all a comforting mélange, and she breathes it in deeply, unthinkingly, lets the scent fill her nostrils. The hoodie carries Bernie’s warmth with it, she immediately feels the chill abate, and smiles her thanks up at Bernie, who is looking down at Serena with a kindness in her eyes, a soft expression. Serena feels a blush heating her cheeks, though she can’t quite say why. She takes another sniff of the hoodie, and suggests they both stop down at Pulses for a coffee when they’re ready to return to the world below.

\- - - - -

There’s something wrong with the heating in the hospital today, spots that are quite cold, and other areas that are exceedingly warm. Maintenance seems to be doing nothing more than scratching their head and hedging that it’ll be at least a day before the problems are solved. Unstable temperatures mean surgeries are rescheduled, put off, and that Serena has nothing stretching before her but paperwork and the occasional consult.

Her office, the office she shares with Bernie, is freezing. She’s got a cup of coffee, holding it between her hands, trying to get some warmth in it. She doesn’t like days like this, not really, days where she doesn’t get to do the kind of life-saving work that made her want to become a doctor in the first place. It’s not that she minds the mundanity, it’s that she minds not being able to do her job due to factors beyond her control, feels sidelined and mollycoddled.

Bernie’s hoodie is draped carelessly across the back of her empty chair. She’s not in until the afternoon, is spending the day unpacking her belongings into some meager flat close to the hospital, news she’d told Serena under the guise of false cheer and platitudes about getting a fresh start.

It’s not being used, so it stands to reason that Serena shouldn’t suffer the cold if there’s a way to stave it off, so she slides the hoodie off the chair, pulls it on easy enough. It smells the way she remembers it, except there’s no lingering smell of cigarette smoke. Bernie’s been trying to quit, chewing gum and patches. Serena finds a wrapper in the pocket, knows the effort to which Bernie is going to. She doesn’t often look at their office from the perspective of Bernie’s desk, notes the clear demarcation of the ordered desk on her side, neat stacks, right angles and pens in a cup, and the desk on Bernie’s side, sloppy piles and cereal bar wrappers, an old coffee cup from the day before.

Serena finds it comforting, wearing this hoodie. It’s horribly at odds with her blouse, the sleeves are bunched up inside the arms of the sweatshirt and she slides her fingers in through the wrist to try to pull the material down. But it is an extra layer against the world, both literally and figuratively. Just as Bernie has her back on the ward, her hoodie feels an extension of that, the comforting, calming presence of Berenice Wolfe imbued in cotton and fleece.

Serena settles herself back on her side of the office, zipping up the hoodie as she seats herself. She pulls her coffee cup back in, picks up her pen with her free hand and starts back into the dreary work of signing off on charts and entering data into the computer.

She’s humming Blondie songs to herself by the time Bernie comes in, her foot tapping out a rhythm, her head bobbing back and forth a bit. She jumps at the sound of the office door opening, realizes she’s still wearing Bernie’s hoodie when she sees the smirk on Bernie’s face, looking down at her.

“Chilly, are we?” Bernie asks, and Serena blushes, goes to unzip it but Bernie holds out her hand. “Keep it for the moment, I’ve just come to drop off my bag before I change into scrubs.” Serena’s hand stills and she just idly fiddles with the zipper pull as Bernie drops her things behind the desk, hangs her coat on the rack behind the door. “It _is_ a cold one, isn’t it?”

“Mmm, and no end in sight, at last check. If I was allowed to be as wishy-washy in my diagnoses as these maintenance men are with their electric work…” she trails off, her meaning taken by Bernie, if she’s to judge by that knowing smile on her face. “Hope you don’t mind I made myself free with your things.”

“Please, what’s mine is yours,” Bernie says jovially, and then the look on her face has changed slightly, her eyes a bit darker, something else behind her smile and Serena can only smile in return because she’s not sure what else to do. They hold eye contact for seconds longer than feels strictly appropriate, and then Bernie ducks out of the office, heads to the lockers.

Serena unzips the hoodie, breathes in the smell once more, the clean, comforting smell that now takes over half of her office, the smell that makes her feel like she’s safe and cared for, and that there’s someone at her side, working with her. It’s the way just a whiff of her mother’s perfume used to make her feel.

\- - - - -

Bernie ran off to Kiev and left a mess behind her. Her desk is untidy and there are wrappers littered around, everywhere but the garbage can. She at least caught up on her charts before leaving, careful to not leave extra work for Serena to do. The least she could do, before running to the hills, scared and worried and in love.

She’s left her hoodie behind, too, along with a set of scrubs, bunched in the bottom of a gym bag next to the coat rack. Serena pretends she doesn’t know the hoodie is there, pretends that Bernie was never in this office, tries to expunge from her mind the smell of Bernie Wolfe, the comfort of her presence.

Holby feels full of Bernie, even though she’s gone, and it makes Serena want to crawl out of her skin. There’s that spot in the hallway where she made up the ridiculous lie about a woman from Stepney. There’s the theatre where Bernie pressed her soft lips to Serena’s. There’s the office, where they shared so many things, everything. When Serena thinks back from the moment she met Bernie, all signs pointed to this, to them, to falling in love. Every single thing. The lingering handshake in the car park, her inane notion to arm wrestle over a surgical procedure, rubbing Bernie’s tired and sore back, any excuse to reach out and touch Bernie, any reason to keep her close.

And now she’s tried to keep Bernie too close, and Bernie felt trapped and ran to escape Serena’s bindings. She pulls in on herself, keeps her emotions tightly guarded, a high-strung jack-in-the-box, ready to pop at any moment. She lets herself feel angry, lets anger override any other emotions, doesn’t let herself miss Bernie, not even for a moment. It would hurt too much to miss her.

So the hoodie stays in the gym bag, Bernie’s desk cleaned of any relics of her, shoved into drawers, just a clean expanse of desk for Serena to look at. She hears the mocking songs of her coworkers, smiles a brittle, hard smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, and does her job, because that’s all she can do.

Jason has stopped mentioning Bernie, has learned well enough it’ll get his head bitten off. Serena apologizes, of course, but it doesn’t mean she can stop, and so Jason no longer says when he gets an email from her, doesn’t tell her about any new Ukranian words Bernie’s taught him. The only time he brings up her name is when they’re watching a World’s Strongest Man marathon and he wonders aloud if Bernie can watch it in Kiev, before snapping his mouth shut and looking at Serena with big eyes, waiting for her to explode.

“I’m sure if she can’t, there’s something equally as good,” is all she says, because part of her is tired of being angry and mean and petty, and it feels good to say something and not have Jason tense up in the after.

And then she loses a patient. It’s a hard one, a single parent, leaving behind a child with large weepy eyes, and she thinks, before she can stop herself, that Bernie could’ve stopped it, that Bernie could’ve saved the father. And she feels a wave of emotion, pulling her under the tide of her feelings, because oh, she _misses_ Bernie.

She locks herself in her office, pulls out the gym bag from its dark corner, pulls out the hoodie from where it’s sat all these weeks. She brings it right up to her nose, breathes deep and tells herself that she can smell that soap, that fragrance that is Bernie, that used to fill her senses. And she wraps herself up in it, pulls the sides close, lets herself miss Bernie, lets herself think of her, for the first time. The wry smile, the hoarse laugh, those long limbs, the way her hands feel as they gently, so gently, caressed Serena’s neck, the taste of her lips, her tongue.

She thinks of emailing Bernie, of saying _something_ to break the silence that has yawned between them. Nothing sounds right, nothing feels right. She can only sit in her office chair, lights dimmed, and tell herself that she can still feel some modicum of comfort from the sweatshirt wrapped around her.

\- - - - -

“Jason’s gone for the weekend,” Serena says one morning, trying for a casual tone. Bernie’s eyes snap to Serena’s, her mouth quirked in that almost-smile that Serena has come to truly love. “He’s already packed his bag, won’t see him till Monday evening.”

These weekends are few and far between, but most welcome, and Serena tries to make the most of them with Bernie, when their schedules allow. “I’ll pack a bag myself, then, shall I?” Bernie asks, in that light flirtatious tone that always gets Serena’s stomach thrumming. She swallows, watches Bernie’s eyes track the movement of her throat, and nods.

Bernie once talked about Alex, about their happy little bubble in Kandahar, where they were in love, and it was perfect, and just the two of them, and Serena thinks that’s what she feels with Bernie now. Wonders if Bernie just makes these bubbles around herself and the people she loves. Serena can’t remember ever feeling this way with Edward, feels sorry about it in the abstract, but is much more concerned with prolonging that feeling in the present, with Bernie.

She touched Bernie before, all the time, a hand on the arm, a pat on the back. But now, _now_ every touch is like electricity, every graze of her fingers like a shock to her system, making her cheeks red and her insides aswirl. She doesn’t know if the feeling will ever stop, but has learned to keep her reactions in check, to not drop charts when their hands touch, to not jump as Bernie passes behind her, a squeeze to Serena’s shoulder.

It’s not a secret, that they’re together. They did kiss for rather a long time in their office, at the behest of Jason and Fletch. But Serena would like to maintain at least some semblance of professionalism, of that steely person that made people stop all gossip mid-sentence if she appeared. She thinks her image has gone a little soft, now that she’s in love, now that they’ve seen how she looks at Bernie. Cares a little, but not enough. They still get the job done, in the end.

With the prospect of Bernie Wolfe in her home for an entire weekend stretching ahead of her, Serena gets to the business of filling out paperwork and seeing patients, keeping herself busy and focused on her work. Bernie leaves a bit early, and Serena knows they’ll meet up at her house, that Bernie might even be cajoled into cooking something for dinner.

She, remarkably, leaves on time, reminds everyone that she and Ms. Wolfe have the following day off, that Raf is to be paged if something happens, and that she is only to be disturbed for the utmost emergency. “Think Sharknado,” she says and earns a short bark of laughter from Morven.

Serena notes that Bernie’s car is already parked in front of her house as she pulls into the driveway. She grabs her work bag from the front seat of her car, locks the doors with her key and Bernie is already waiting with the door open. “Thought I heard you drive up,” she says, her voice warm, inviting, and Serena’s heart swells. She didn’t know if they’d ever get to this point, and now she doesn’t know if she’ll ever get used to the sight of Bernie, right in front of her, welcoming and open. She kisses Serena lightly, quickly, always a little mindful of the neighbors, though Serena has said, upon multiple occasions, that she’ll be damned if she cares what they think.

Bernie is wearing her hoodie, knows by now of Serena’s affinity for it. Serena can smell something coming from the kitchen, spicy and strong. There are two glasses of wine on the dining room table, a place setting for two. Serena likes to think of Bernie in her home, acting for all the world like she belongs there.

Serena toes out of her shoes, hangs her coat and scarf up, and lets herself be led to the table, where Bernie pulls a chair out for her, settles in the chair next to it. Serena can never get her fill of these moments, the quiet times between them. Yes, she loves Bernie in bed and the way she tastes, and she will never get her fill of that either, but the easiness that exists between them, this domesticity, that was harder won, and all the dearer for it.

After dinner is done, they’re still sitting in their chairs at the dining room table, slightly pulled back. Bernie’s pulled Serena’s feet into her lap, one hand rubbing idly at one foot, the other just lightly encircling Serena’s other ankle. Bernie is good at the physical displays of affection, when they’re alone together. It comes easy to her, natural. As easily as Serena’s unconscious touches during the workday.

“Bed?” Bernie asks after a bit, her voice a little creaky from the silence that has stretched between them. Serena arches her back slightly, closes her eyes.

“Mmm,” is all she says, feeling like a contented, well-cared for cat. Bernie playfully tugs at Serena’s ankle and she opens one eye a crack, smiles at Bernie, and swings her legs to the floor. “Lead on, MacDuff,” she says and Bernie dutifully heads up the stairs first, the sound of her hoodie unzipping hitting Serena’s ears, propelling her into movement.

It’s not always frantic and hot and sweaty, when they have sex. Serena certainly enjoys that, enjoys when she feels like she can’t get enough, like she can’t touch Bernie enough, like her skin is on fire. But she likes it, too, when they have uninterrupted hours, when time falls away, and they can be languid and slow. They’re both in old t-shirts and shorts, and they meet in the middle of the bed, kissing unhurriedly, just taking the time to taste everything, to feel everything. Serena slides her tongue into Bernie’s waiting mouth, swipes it against Bernie’s tongue, hums her happiness.

Bernie’s hands go under Serena’s shirt, they always do, she can’t get enough of Serena’s smooth skin, her full breasts. Serena keeps her hands at Bernie’s head, playing with the fine blonde hair, just pouring everything into her kisses, making detours to Bernie’s cheeks, her ears, her neck, that sensitive spot just below her chin.

Bernie pushes Serena’s shorts down, her pants too, kneads Serena’s rear, holding their lower halves close, and Serena slides a leg over Bernie’s, crooks it behind her knees, holds her just as close. She pulls back from kissing Bernie, looks at her face in the dim room, tucks a curl of hair behind Bernie’s ear, always a little taken aback by just how beautiful Bernie is, how lucky she is that Bernie should be here.

“What?” Bernie asks, and Serena just shakes her head, moves back in, nuzzles her nose against Bernie’s, kisses her again, softly, sweetly. And slides a hand into Bernie’s knickers, slowly manipulating her fingers just so, taking her time. Bernie uses the fact that Serena’s leg is over top of hers to slide her thigh against the apex of Serena’s thighs and Serena can’t help but rut against the friction. She can feel Bernie’s breath coming in pants, doesn’t want to make her come just yet. Bernie nips at Serena’s neck, leaves a tiny bite mark there, one Serena will have to use concealer on the next day.

Bernie in the throes of an orgasm is a sight Serena will never get used to, her normally closed off face so open and peaceful, a low guttural noise coming from her throat, the tension in her body, the blonde hair fanned out behind her. And then Bernie, boneless and relaxed, curls into Serena, lets herself be held. Murmurs that it’s Serena’s turn next, but falls asleep quickly, her hair brushing against Serena’s nose, her breath warm on Serena’s breast.

In the morning, Serena pulls on Bernie’s hoodie, picks it up from where it spent the night, a crumpled mess on the floor. She goes to the kitchen to make coffee, rifles through the refrigerator for something easy to bring back up to bed, settles on some sliced fruit she’d bought at the market, and heads back upstairs with two warm mugs precariously balanced in one hand, a bowl of cantaloupe in the other.

Bernie’s still asleep when Serena puts a mug down on her bedside table, then walks around the bed to her own side, slides back under the covers, sits with her back against the headboard, pulls her book off the table next to her and reads by the early morning light filtering in through the window.

“I could just get you a hoodie of your own, you know,” Bernie says sleepily, her face still pressed against the pillow, her hair an unholy bird’s nest, eyelashes tangling with her fringe. Serena closes the book around her finger, holding her place.

“I like this one well enough, thank you,” she says. She leans down to kiss the top of Bernie’s head, breathes in the clean scent of her hair, the one that clings to the hoodie, that makes Serena feel at home, the scent that made her realize that, for her, home is a person.

\- - - - -

Bernie is running AAU, is supporting Serena through her grief by making sure that everything at the hospital is running smoothly. She doesn’t have the words to say how sorry she is, just holds Serena’s hand through it all, the strong, silent shadow tethering Serena to the world. Bernie is the one who fights with Edward, who keeps Liberty at bay. She handles the paperwork, lets Serena sit at home while she tries to sort herself out. She takes long baths, doesn’t get out until her skin is wrinkled, sore, the water cold and uncomfortable.

Elinor’s funeral is hard, it’s sad, the pews full of beautiful young women that all make Serena think of the daughter she’ll never see grow up. Bernie sits at her right, Jason on the left, Henrik and Raf behind her, and Serena tries to take comfort in the support of those around her, can’t feel anything but the yawning maw of grief, a bottomless chasm she can’t stop falling down. She feels like Alice, tumbling to Wonderland, this new life after Elinor a strange country with rules she doesn’t understand.

They sing hymns she’ll never be able to sing again, forever tainted by this day. Serena fumbles through a eulogy, her throat constricted with tears, her head cloudy, she can’t even think what it is she’s said. Bernie tells her it was good, sweet and lovely. Jason recites a poem and Serena can’t stop the tears from falling, then. Can’t bear to see Jason sad, unable to hide the wealth of emotion he feels about this all.

But they make it through, and because it’s the middle of the day, Bernie goes back to work, drops Serena and Jason at home on the way. Jason goes immediately to his room, locks the door, and Serena knows she won’t see him again until dinner, when he’ll emerge just to bring a plate back up to his bedroom. She thinks she should try to enforce some kind of family dinner, but can’t find the energy in herself to say anything about it. It’s all she can do to make food most nights. Jason’s schedule, too, keeps Serena from losing herself completely. She still has a person who depends upon her.

When dinner is seen to, she climbs into bed, pulls the covers over her head, makes a cocoon for herself. Bernie’s left her hoodie under Serena’s pillow, like a safety blanket, a talisman to help her through her grief. She doesn’t put it on, doesn’t feel like she deserves its warm embrace, but holds it close in her arms, close enough to smell it.

She’s still holding it tightly, the hood damp with her tears, when Bernie comes into bed, slides under the covers and draws Serena in close, muttering words that Serena can’t quite make out, just ‘darling,’ and ‘there, there’ and ‘shhhh, I’m here.” She lets herself be held, lets herself try to imagine a world where she’ll feel okay again, a world where grief doesn’t lurk in every corner and every glance. She grips Bernie’s hand tightly, their fingers entwined. She smells that clean soapy scent and tries to remember a time when that was all it took to make her feel safe and happy.

\- - - - -

It’s as if Serena exists in two places, these days. There is the logical part of her, the part that knows she’s behaving irrationally, that can see all of the unhealthy behaviors she’s engaging in. And there’s the part that drinks wine at work, that berates Jasmine for the smallest thing, that keeps her going at a manic pace. There’s a fair amount of trade-off, between these sides of herself, but it’s the frenetic, illogical side that keeps Bernie sending her worried glances all day, her mouth drawn, her gaze fretful.

Serena can’t control either side, doesn’t know when her grief will rear its ugly head and cause her to rain torment down on her ward. If she’s honest, it doesn’t feel like her ward anymore, it feels like Bernie’s ward, and she’s allowed to be present because of who she is. Everyone seems like a stranger to her, she doesn’t know the rules for social interaction anymore, doesn’t know how to talk to people who only have pity in their eyes.

She can tell Bernie is struggling, that Bernie is remaining tight-lipped and silent because she thinks that’s what Serena needs, because she’s still trying to prove herself to Serena. If Serena were herself, she would tell Bernie that she doesn’t need to prove anything. But instead, she lets Bernie suffer in silence, because it’s easier, because then she doesn’t have to talk about anything, doesn’t have to see sympathy written across Bernie’s features.

Bernie comes over for dinner quite often, doesn’t often stay the night anymore. Serena drinks a bottle of wine, sometimes more, and falls asleep on the couch, waking in the morning to a blanket pulled over her and a note from Bernie, always signed with an x. 

Jason makes a note to tell Serena how many times a week this happens, how many bottles of wine she's gone through, how many glasses she's broken. He's unhappy, missing Elinor, unable to understand his aunt, and she doesn't know how to fix it. He spends more and more time with Alan, away from her. Sometimes grief is unifying, but in this, Serena just feels alone, a stalwart house on a rock in the middle of the ocean, and doesn't know how to get back to the mainland.

And then Bernie tells her, one day, to go home, to take the rest of the day off. She's yelled at Jasmine, chastised Morven, scolded Raf, and even snapped at Bernie. So Bernie shoves a bag into Serena’s hands and propels her out the door, gives her instructions to do nothing for the rest of the day, to sleep, to try to get control of her head. Serena walks home, it’s what she does now, lets the cold winter weather seep into her skin. Draws herself a hot bath, the steam rising from the water, her vision going hazy, sleepy.

As she dries herself off, she looks through the bag Bernie sent with her, nothing in it but a pack of crisps, a worn paperback, and Bernie’s hoodie. Bernie hasn’t left it, not in a while, hasn’t worn it either. But it’s been freshly laundered, and Serena wonders if Bernie wore it around a bit before packing it in the plastic bag, so it would smell like her. She doesn’t think Bernie even knows why Serena likes the hoodie so much, that it goes beyond the article of clothing itself, that it’s as much about Bernie’s presence as it is anything else.

Serena pulls on the hoodie, zips it up to her chin, ties the strings in a tight little bow, that endearing quirk of Bernie’s. It makes her feel a little stronger, a little saner, to do something the way Bernie would do it. Wonders if that’s what she needs to do going forward, ask herself what Bernie would do.

The clean smell of the hoodie wraps around her, and Serena can almost imagine Bernie is there with her, can almost see a future where she feels like herself again.

\- - - - -

She packs for her sabbatical when Bernie isn’t home, rolls her clothes into neat bundles, nestling them next to each other, filling her suitcase. She doesn’t exactly know where she’s going yet, just knows that she’s going. She packs her toothbrush, her shoes, even the blouses she doesn’t like very much. Her makeup gets scooped into a bag, tossed in her suitcase as well. She feels like she’s trying to put her whole life in this bag, so there’s less that she’ll feel she’s leaving behind.

She takes the train, lets the world whip past her, holds her book in her lap but doesn’t look at it, too preoccupied with the scenery, watching England melt away. The woman next to her tries to make conversation but Serena can’t think of anything to say, seems to have lost her talent for small talk. So she just smiles politely and pulls out her phone to send Bernie a text message.

There’s a package waiting for her, when she gets to her hotel in France. It’s wrapped in brown paper, Bernie’s hand-writing on the address label. Serena hurries to her room, is ripping into it before the door’s even closed behind her.

It’s Bernie’s hoodie, well-worn, clean and smelling of _her_ , and Serena breathes it in, holds it close.

 _You forgot this._ _Let me know when you need it laundered._ The note is short, brief, and so very Bernie.

Serena smiles, because Bernie must know, has never missed the fact that Serena revels in the scent of her hoodie, understands that it’s not just about the hoodie. Knows as well as Serena does that it’s good to have a piece of home that can travel with you.

Serena breathes deep once more, fresh linens, soap, clean, and _Bernie_.


	8. a girl like you should wear a warning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [PotOfCoffee](http://archiveofourown.org/users/potofcoffee) asked for: like i want a fic where bernie meets serena through marcus and marcus can’t see what’s going on in front of him, bonus points if everything with alex didn’t go down and bernie doesn’t know she’s gay
> 
> timeline? what timeline? some of these things happen the way they did on the show, some of them don't! what a fun adventure!

Bernie Wolfe isn’t sure how she feels about Holby City, how she feels about civilian life, how she feels about anything. She is still adjusting, she supposes, still learning how this new skin fits, all the different limitations and rules. In her mind, she imagines her first few weeks back as a sort of training, where she’s being taught what’s expected of her. When to be home for dinner, how early she’s allowed to take a shower, what a good evening activity for the family is. Instead of orders being barked, she sees the surprise in the faces of her family when she slips up on the things that are second nature to them. She adjusts, readjusts, learns this role the way she learned how to run a trauma outfit in the desert.

It isn’t easy, and she often chafes against the expectations. She’s used to having people dependent upon her, used to the feel of responsibility, but the role of wife and mother doesn’t come naturally and that is what surprises her most. Charlotte is taciturn, distant - they’re both unsure of how to exist around one another, the ease of hair-braiding and coloring books no longer appropriate. Cameron is more jovial, talkative - he never fought for Bernie’s approval, never even tried to compete with Charlotte in that arena. He treats her like one of his mates, with no expectations from her. Says he’s already grown, there’s not much left for her to do. 

Sometimes it feels as if the only thing she can do is go to work and come home and do the same the next day. She tries to help with the laundry, but doesn’t catch all of the things of Charlotte’s that can’t go in the dryer. She makes dinner one night, forgetting that Charlotte’s attempting that paleo diet trend, and ends up eating her kebabs alone. Every attempt feels like it’s only another failure, and soon she stops trying. Work is the only place she feels at all successful, and even there, she can’t quite find her footing.

She’s a bit of a showboat, she’s learned. She likes when her skills are appreciated, when she can truly showcase her abilities. Bernie is good in the operating theatre, takes risks when the odds are on her side, enjoys watching the amazement on the faces of the young doctors around her. But she forgets that there’s another side to it all, caring for the patients, making sure they understand what she’s doing and why. She’s forgotten how to explain things to people who don’t have the same level of knowledge she does. It’s a learning curve, too.

Marcus sees she’s having a hard time, tells her that he knows a surgeon at Holby, the consultant on AAU. “Met her ages ago, at some conference or other. We still occasionally keep in touch. Why don’t the three of us go out for drinks? Be good for you to have someone at work, a friend.” Bernie is surprised at the offer, the kindness of it. She can’t pretend things aren’t strained, that this marriage that she once prized as a testament to her commitment now feels nothing more than perfunctory. 

“Sure, let’s,” she says, because it’s better than a silent dinner at home with everyone picking at their plates and no one making eye contact. They find a night when miraculously none of them work late, and they go to a bar near the hospital - Albie’s. Bernie’s heard mention of it, hasn’t gone yet, hasn’t fully earned an invitation. She’s still the outsider. 

Marcus will meet them there, so Bernie goes to Albie’s alone, sits at the bar and orders a whisky, a little bit of Dutch courage to help her make it through. Bernie has heard tell of Serena Campbell, the head of AAU, but hasn’t seen her in person. So she sits at the bar, facing the door. She’s never liked being caught off guard. 

The door opens, a crisp fall breeze coming in and sweeping through the space, and a pretty woman with short brown hair and a friendly face enters. This must be Serena, and all Bernie can think of is how lovely she looks, and doesn’t know why that should be the first thing on her mind. Bernie takes a gulp of her drink, finishes it in one swig, braces herself against the fiery aftertaste.

“You must be Berenice Wolfe!” Serena’s voice is a surprise, smooth, lyrical, almost. She holds her hand out and Bernie shakes it, holds her hand for slightly longer than she might normally. She has the smooth hands of a surgeon who lotions frequently to counterbalance the constant washing and calluses. Bernie knows her hands are rougher, more workman-like. She wonders if Serena notices.

“Bernie, please,” she says, always anxious to shed that albatross as quickly as possible. “Do you have a favorite table?” 

“Oh, they’re all my favorite table. I’m surprised you haven’t heard.” Serena chuckles and Bernie feels the way she felt on a first date, that rush to impress, the fumbling for words. So she just lets Serena order them wine, carries it to the table she picks out, back in the corner, tucked away. Bernie texts Marcus so he knows where to look for them, then slides her phone back into her coat pocket.

“I’m sorry I haven’t met you yet - always a bit unpredictable on AAU, I’m afraid, hard to get time away.” Serena seems genuinely sorry about this, as though she’s failed somehow.

“I haven’t come down to see your facilities either - the blame rests with us both, I suppose,” Bernie says with a half smile, just a quick upturn of her lips. Marcus always tells her he wishes she’d show her teeth once in awhile, let her face split into a grin, but she’s never been that way. Too much British reserve, she thinks.

“Fair enough. To being here now, then,” Serena says, lifting her wine glass in a toast. Bernie mimics her, clinks the rim of her glass gently against Serena’s, and sips the red wine carefully. Shiraz isn’t usually her go-to, but she didn’t see the point in arguing with Serena about it. Anything will do in a pinch, she’s learned, and it’s better than the stuff she’d drunk in Kandahar.

Bernie has never been good at small talk, at the pleasantries that help two people get to know each other. Her friendships had been forged through fire, through shared experiences on the frontlines of war. There was no need to learn someone’s favorite color when there is an endless stream of broken bodies coming in. 

Serena is more accomplished at it, it seems. She’s the epitome of a British housewife, in some ways, and Bernie can just imagine her cooking a Sunday roast and puttering around with a husband and children. The image annoys her, a little, and she looks at Serena’s hands, doesn’t see a ring. 

“How long have you been back, then?” Serena asks, stirring Bernie from her reverie. Her face is so kind, so friendly and open, and Bernie wants to tell her so many things, feels the urge to say things she won’t say to Marcus, but she slams the gate on that impulse, shutters herself away.

“Not long, really.” Bernie doesn’t say that it feels like a whole lifetime has passed since she left the army, doesn’t say that she’s been counting the days, like some kind of bizarre prison sentence. It’s ludicrous, she thinks, to even think of her life in Holby as a prison sentence. Marcus always tells her how lucky she is to be alive, how lucky they are to be together. She has to remind herself of that all the time. “Long enough, I suppose.”

“Bet it feels interminable,” Serena says, a little conspiratorially, leaning in closer to Bernie, and Bernie pulls back a little, scared to let a bond form between them, however tenuous. Serena pulls back too, seems to realize she’s crossed some boundary in Bernie’s mind. “We have veterans on the ward all the time, they all have the same story - civilian life is hell for a bit, takes a period of adjustment.” Serena sips at her wine, doesn’t seem to feel a need to make Bernie say anything.

Marcus arrives then, dashing in, his coat damp from rain that must have just started falling. He presses a kiss to Bernie’s cheek, smiles at Serena. They’re seated in a booth, and Marcus slides next to Bernie, too close, and she shifts uncomfortably, doesn’t like the feeling of his thigh pressed against hers. She sees Serena looking, her face impassive, wonders how much Serena sees.

The night feels like a dance that Bernie is unable to find the rhythm to. She’s slow to pick up on Marcus’s jokes, slight jabs at Bernie that she’s supposed to laugh at, to show she’s a good sport. She feels undermined at every turn, like Marcus wants to make sure Serena likes him best, is impressed with him. She isn’t sure why Serena’s good will is so important to her, but she wants to keep it, finds it hard to go along with Marcus. 

Serena, for her part, doesn’t even crack a smile at any of Marcus’s sarcastic remarks. She says something about her nephew, Jason, and how she’d made shepherd’s pie ahead of time for him so that she could be here tonight. 

Marcus is red-faced, a little. He’s drunk a glass and a half of wine while Bernie’s yet to finish her first. “Ah, good at taking recipe suggestions, eh? Not like our Bernie - she’s got a mind of her own in the kitchen, won’t make a thing to order.” Bernie flushes at that, the sting of her failed kebabs too fresh. Serena’s eyes dart back and forth between them, unsure of what to do, Bernie thinks. She wishes this evening were over, wishes she’d never agreed to it.

“I’ve got an early surgery,” she says at last, even though it’s a lie. She wants to be somewhere, anywhere else. Away from Serena’s careful gaze, away from Marcus’s little pinpricks, away from this red wine she thinks she might hate more than anything else. Marcus looks at her, his eyebrows raised.

“That’s right, you and Sacha Levy going in together, isn’t that right?” Serena says, coming to Bernie’s rescue without a moment’s pause. Bernie shoots her a grateful look, stands up quickly from her chair, the legs scraping against the floor. 

“That’s right. Good to meet you, Se-Serena,” Bernie says, stumbling over her name, so grateful she can hardly bear it. She almost holds her hand out again, to shake once more, but stops herself, doesn’t know if she can stand the feel of Serena’s fingers against her palm right now. 

“I’ll look for you at the hospital,” Serena says, stands too, busses her face against Bernie’s, polite and perfunctory and all Bernie can think of is how her face is burning, red and warm, and is grateful she could blame it on the shiraz if asked. 

She and Marcus leave, and she’s glad to be able to drive home separately, takes a longer route, wishes she had a reason to stop back at work, finds herself wishing for a trauma before she can stop herself. Bad luck, to wish for that, she’s learned. 

Marcus is on the sofa when she gets home, leaning back into the cushions, the television on. Some football game that Bernie is sure she couldn’t care about less. She excuses herself to their bedroom, wonders if Marcus will fall asleep on the couch, feels bad for hoping that to be the case. She changes into her pajamas, an army t-shirt that makes her feel more normal than anything else in her life and a pair of scrub bottoms, stolen from the hospital on her second day. There’s comfort in those, too.

Bernie lays on her side, her back to the middle of the bed, turns the lamp off, closes her eyes. Sleep doesn’t come easily to her, but she always makes a valiant effort, cozy under the heavy duvet. She falls asleep thinking of warm brown eyes and a friendly chuckle, and doesn’t ask herself why.

\- - -

She sees Serena the very next day, after Bernie’s finished for the day, the hood of Serena’s car open in the parking lot. Serena’s shouting into her phone and Bernie finds herself watching the scene unfold with a fond smile, though why Serena should elicit that feeling when Bernie’s only just met her is a bit of a headscratcher. 

Bernie saunters over, hands stuffed in the pockets of her coat. “Engine been growling or whining?” she asks, and Serena turns to her with a smile.

“Funny, you don’t look like a mechanic,” she answers, hanging up the call. Bernie laughs, a short bark of a chuckle, but Serena’s eyes dance at the sound. 

“Need a ride home?” Bernie isn’t sure why she offers, except that she’s always had a bit of a hero complex, and Serena saved her last night. It’s the least she can do to return the favor. Serena looks at her appraisingly, then nods. 

“Can we stop for fish and chips on the way? If it’s not too much trouble.” Serena picks up her bag from where it’s been resting on the ground, shoulders it easily, and follows Bernie to her car. “Quite sporty,” she notes, and Bernie blushes a little. This car had been an impulse purchase, something to make her feel excited about her return to Holby. It’s fast and showy and makes Bernie feel alive when she’s behind the wheel.

“Tell me where I’m going,” Bernie says, when they’re settled, seat belts buckled. Serena gives directions well, uses her hands to point. She lets Bernie idle in the car while she pops into the chips shop, apologizes for the inconvenience again, but she’d said enough about Jason the night before that Bernie understands.

“I got enough for three,” Serena says, after she’s climbed back into the passenger seat. “I don’t know if you have dinner plans, but you’re welcome to join us. I’m sure Jason will have plenty of questions about the military.” There’s something unspoken between them, Bernie thinks. Serena saw how Marcus was at Albie’s, is offering Bernie a lifeline, a respite. She wants to say yes, desperately, opens her mouth to form the words, but then something inside her pulls back.

“Not tonight,” she says instead. “Wouldn’t want to spring in on Jason without warning. Maybe next week?” Serena nods, lets the subject lie, the smell of beer-battered cod filling the small car.

\- - -

Now that she knows Serena, it seems she can’t stop running into her. She sees the top of Serena’s head in a crowd, sees her going into the lift, sees her walking to her car. Bernie wonders how she’s missed Serena all this time, when she seem to be everywhere. 

They most commonly run into each other at Pulses, in the morning. Bernie always just goes for plain black coffees, quick and easy. She wants to get in and out. Serena has more complicated orders, and shots of things. She gets food, too, pastries and sugary things that Bernie thinks about her eating delicately as she signs off on charts, dusting crumbs off into her trash bin.

Bernie arrives after Serena, often, looks for her in the line at Pulses, usually lets that dictate whether or not she stops for a hot beverage. “Remember when coffee was just coffee?” Bernie asks one morning, sidling up to Serena, bag on her shoulder, hair messy and curly. Serena looks at her, sizes her up, and smiles.

“Strong and hot is all I care about on a day like today,” she says and Bernie feels Serena’s words thrum through her body. She’s heard that Serena flirts with everyone, shouldn’t take it so seriously, but there’s a part of her that feels the pull of possibility, of something she’s never thought of before.

“Aye, aye” she answers, without a second thought, really, almost offers a salute, and Serena laughs at that.

“Got RTCs and broken bones coming out of my ears.  _ What _ I wouldn’t give for a couple of calm shifts on Keller.” Her tone is light, mocking, flirtatious, but then she looks at Bernie more seriously, the lines around her mouth creased. “How are you finding the quieter life, by the way?” 

It’s the first time Serena’s touched on this topic since Albie’s, the first time she’s dared to broach it with Bernie, and Bernie thinks she might’ve scared Serena off, when she closed down that night. “Mmm. It’s a relief,” Bernie says, wonders if it’s obvious that she’s lying, but Serena’s grabbing her coffee, dashing off, and Bernie thinks Serena won’t give it a second thought. 

Sometimes there’s a coffee waiting for Bernie when she gets to Keller, and all anyone says is that Ms. Campbell’s left it for her. Bernie thinks that she should try to reciprocate, but she never remembers in time. She’s always been bad at that sort of thing anyway, it doesn’t come easily to her. She only manages it when it feels very important. Doesn’t think about the fact that she’s never managed to surprise Marcus with a present, something he’s brought up, something that’s a bit of a sore spot between them. 

She thinks that in the movies, it’s always the women trying to change the men in their lives, but in her own life, she feels as if she’s some sort of renovation project for Marcus, that he’s trying to mold her into the kind of wife he’s dreamt of.

One morning, when she’s on her way out of work after a long night, she buys a pain au chocolat, drops it off on AAU for Serena, thinks that maybe she’s changing after all.

\- - - 

Somewhere along the way, Serena’s become Bernie’s friend. She isn’t sure how it’s happened, isn’t used to having friendships come upon her in this way. They’ve exchanged phone numbers at this point, but Bernie never initiates anything. It’s always Serena who sends a quick text asking how her day is going, or saying she’s headed down for coffee if Bernie has the time for a break. Bernie responds, still isn’t used to smartphones, really. She once makes the mistake of telling Serena that she misses her old flip phone, which earns her mockery for at least a week.

Serena does eventually get Bernie to come over for dinner, says she’s talked about Bernie enough that Jason wants to meet her, and Bernie can’t come up with a reason to say no. Serena offers to drive the both of them, says she’ll give Bernie a ride home after they’ve finished eating. Bernie weighs her options, thinks she can walk to work in the morning, that it’s worth it for moments alone with Serena in the quiet of her car.

They haven’t spent time together, just the two of them, no people bustling around, no patients or gurneys or pagers or husbands. Bernie thinks the quiet stretches between them easily, that they have the space to just let it sit there. “You know you’re in for battered fish and at least one episode of Countdown?” Serena warns and Bernie laughs.

“You’ve told me enough about Jason that I’m well prepared,” she reassures Serena, because she thinks Serena is nervous, to let Bernie into this part of her world. Serena smiles that wide, friendly smile, the one that sets her whole face alight and Bernie feels her heart clench. “Beer batter isn’t paleo, so it’s been awhile since I’ve had any myself. Looking forward to it.” Bernie wants Serena to know this is okay, that it’s all okay. 

They pick up the fish, the same place Bernie drove them to that first time, and then Serena drives them to her house. Bernie doesn’t know what she expects from the home of Serena Campbell, but when Serena pulls into the driveway of a small two-story, it’s exactly what Bernie thinks it should be. There’s a well-kept garden in the front, window boxes, a light on over the front door. It’s welcoming, just like its owner.

Serena ushers Bernie in, admonishes her to take off her shoes, hangs her coat on the rack by the door. Bernie wonders how often Serena has people over, if having Jason in her life has given her fewer opportunities to host. Not, she thinks, that Serena would ever have any regrets about allowing Jason to move in. 

“Jason?” Serena calls, and Bernie hears the faint sound of the television. “Jason, we’re here.” Bernie smiles at that, at the feeling of being expected, and the noise from the other room is paused. Jason comes into view, he’s tall, a friendly face too. It must run in the family. 

“You must be Dr. Bernie,” he says, holds out his hand. Bernie shakes it firmly and is about to compliment him on his grip strength when he adds, “Your hair isn’t as bad as Auntie Serena said.” Bernie looks at Serena with wide eyes, a laugh at her lips, and Serena flushes, excuses herself to the kitchen and Bernie and Jason are left in the front hall, looking at each other.

“Come on, I’ve got an episode of Countdown going,” Jason says, and turns on his heel without waiting to see if Bernie follows. She does, easily. Always been the good soldier, always willing to follow orders. He excuses her from having to compete during the rest of the episode as she’s coming in midstream and it wouldn’t be fair to her. Serena comes in after a bit, with a plate of fish and chips, a gherkin on the side, and glass of water, sets it on the table in front of Jason.

“You can eat in here tonight, Jason, but I’m going to ask Dr. Bernie to join me in the dining room, if she doesn’t mind,” Serena says, and Bernie stands, quickly, anxious to spend time with Serena, wherever she’ll have her. Feels a blush start at her cheeks at the implications that extend beyond sharing fish and chips across a dining room table. Serena looks at her curiously and Bernie slants her eyes away.

Serena seats herself at the head of the table, meant for six people, and Bernie takes the spot to her left, where a plate sits waiting for her. “This is nice, Serena,” she says, because she means it and because Serena looks worried, the frown lines in her forehead creased ever so slightly. “No gherkin for me, then?” she asks, because she wants to make Serena smile again. Instead consternation flickers across her face.

“Should I have gotten you one too?” she asks, a note of panic in her voice and Bernie reaches out to touch her hand, an unheard of expression of physical intimacy. 

“It was a joke, Serena.” Bernie says, her voice going soft on Serena’s name, her fingers still resting against the back of Serena’s hand, a delicate touch. Serena looks down at their hands, looks back at Bernie, and visibly relaxes. Doesn’t pull her hand away.

It’s Bernie who has to take her hand back, to cut into her fish. “How was work today?” she asks, because she can’t think of anything else to ask about, even though it seems like such a paltry conversation starter.

“Fine. I don’t - I didn’t say anything bad about your hair to Jason,” Serena say, and looks down at her plate, won’t look at Bernie. All Bernie can do is laugh, a loud, braying laugh. She leans back in her chair and lets the laugh out, can’t stop it, even if she wanted to. Serena looks mortified and Bernie wishes she could reach out and grab her hand again, thinks it’s probably too much to expect that she’d get away with it a second time.

“It’s all right, Serena. It’s a bird’s nest most days, or at least that’s what Marcus says. He keeps dropping hints I should straighten it again.” She touches her hair a little self-consciously, the waves and curls something she didn’t allow herself in the army, but something she’s tried to cultivate since coming home, a visible demarcation for her new life.

“No, don’t. Don’t do that,” Serena says, a strangled sort of panic in her voice. “Your hair is nice, that’s all,” she amends, goes back to eating her dinner, and Bernie lets the subject drop, eats a chip, wipes the grease on her pants instead of the napkin, which has dropped to the floor, unnoticed.

\- - - 

Serena convinces Bernie to go to Albie’s again, just the two of them. Not that she has to do much convincing, just turns up to Keller one evening and says, “Up for a drink?” Bernie finds it hard to say no to Serena, about anything, so she just pulls on her coat, says her good nights, and follows Serena downstairs. 

The walk to Albie’s is quick, they’re both bundled up against the cold, Serena wearing a ridiculous fur hat that Bernie finds endearing. Their breaths form little clouds in the air, ephemeral wisps that dissipate quickly. Bernie opens the door for Serena, her hand encased in a slim leather glove, and follows her into the pub.

Serena guides them to the comfier seating, overstuffed chairs in the corner. On the opposite side of Albie’s from that first night, with Marcus, and Bernie wonders how intentional that is. “I’ll get the drinks,” she offers, once she’s shed her coat and gloves. “I know it’s shiraz for you,” she says with a smile when Serena starts to open her mouth. Serena snaps her jaw closed, drops the slightest wink at Bernie, and she has to turn away before Serena can see the heat rise on her face.

She gets them both red wine, is willing to give it another go in deference to Serena’s tastes, thinks it may be an important, unspoken, litmus test in their friendship. And Bernie finds it does taste better, away from Marcus and his unthinkingly mean comments, when it’s just Serena across the table from her, heavily lidded eyes staring at her over the rim of her wine glass.

Bernie finds herself staring at Serena more and more when they spend time together. Notes when she has on different earrings, when she’s gone in for a trim, when she’s got on a new blouse. She thinks that perhaps this is just what it’s like to have a female friend, she hasn’t had a civilian friend in so long. She does reach out to touch the silk of Serena’s sleeve, comments on the pretty blue color, because it makes Serena’s whole face glow, lit from within with some kind of inner happiness Bernie can only dream of.

“More wine, I think. Get a bottle, this time,” Serena directs when her glass is empty, and Bernie hops up to follow orders, just starts a tab, because she gets the feeling they’re in this for the long haul tonight. She has the morning off tomorrow, can afford to suffer a wine-induced headache if it means she gets to have an evening with nothing but Serena’s company. 

They drink, quite a lot. Enough that Serena suggests they split cab fare. As with so many of Serena’s suggestions, Bernie acquiesces. She calls a cab, and she and Serena huddle outside waiting for it arrive, their shoulders so close, their bodies arced towards each other, trying to share their body heat. Serena blows on her hands, the warmth from her breath hitting Bernie’s cheeks too, and she closes her eyes at the sensation.

The ride in the cab is quiet, Serena leaning against Bernie, tired from her day and the wine. She mumbles something about usually being a much more exuberant drunk and Bernie awkwardly pats at her with the arm trapped under Serena’s body. The driver pulls in front of Bernie’s house and Serena sits up, allowing Bernie to move. 

On impulse, Bernie leans in to kiss Serena’s cheek, something that just feels right to do with her, tonight. It all happens so slowly but she can’t stop it - she moves towards Serena and Serena turns her face just so - their lips collide, quickly, briefly, but Bernie feels such a flare in her chest that she pulls away like she’s been shocked. Serena’s eyes are wide, and all Bernie can do is clamber out of the back of the cab, slide some bills to the driver and say something about seeing Serena the next day.

\- - -

All Bernie can think about is the feeling of Serena’s lips on hers. Whether accidental or not, it consumes her thoughts. She finds herself thinking about it when Marcus gives her a kiss good night, when he tries to encourage her into having sex. She colors at the thought of thinking of her best friend (because that’s what Serena is) while her husband is fondling her breasts, and tries to tamp down on the memory.

She doesn’t see Serena much, for a week or two, doesn’t know how intentional that is. Bernie wishes she’d done more to establish herself as someone who initiated the contact between them, but she’s always waited for Serena to make the first move before, and it seems like a mistake to change that balance now, when it already seems a bit fragile at the moment.

Instead, she tries to throw herself into the other two constants in her life, her work and her marriage. She takes Dom under her wing, tries to help him expand and grow as a doctor, offers him surgical opportunities he’d been passed over for before. He excels under her tutelage, thrives, even. They’re a good team, she feels like she can be honest and frank with him, and he responds in kind. It feels good to have someone on her side on Keller, she doesn’t have to go down to AAU to find some measure of support.

She tries more, too, with Marcus, with her homelife. She finds a recipe for quinoa salad from some blog Charlotte mentioned in passing, makes it for dinner one night and doesn’t receive any snide remarks in return. Charlotte even smiles, offers a few details about her day at school, and Bernie wears that like a badge of honor. It’s work, hard and thankless at times, this whole marriage and family thing, but when her daughter gives her that small grin that matches her own, Bernie’s heart could explode with happiness.

She hadn’t wanted to be a mother, not really, not at the start. But when Cameron was born, she felt a change, felt like it was something she could do. He was an easy baby, slept a lot, perhaps too heavy of a reliance on nappies for too long, but didn’t give her much trouble at all, made her feel like a success. Charlotte was harder, colicky and unhappy, none of the giggling or burbling that made Cameron a favorite among the older women in the neighborhood.

Bernie found herself loving her children in a way she hadn’t thought she knew how to love, a deep, frantic love that felt like it could never be enough. She still feels that way, looking at Charlotte from across the dinner table, thinks that maybe some day she and Charlotte will get past this, that Charlotte will see she’s here to stay this time, that Bernie wants this family, isn’t trying to run from it.

In the spirit of holding fast to her family, Bernie takes Marcus out to dinner, picks him up from work and everything, like a proper date. She tries not to spend any time thinking about Serena, about the last time she was out at a pub and drinking. She’s mostly successful in this endeavor, able to focus on what Marcus is saying, even lets him hold her hand across the table, though it feels a little strange and forced to her mind. 

Charlotte is out for the night, and there’s no reason not to follow him up to their bedroom. And then, Bernie fails herself, because all she can think about is Serena, doesn’t know why this should be. But as Marcus kisses her mouth, Bernie thinks of Serena’s lips. When Marcus thumbs her nipples, she wonders what Serena’s smooth hands would feel like on her breasts. When he grunts as he enters her, Bernie is wet with the thought of Serena’s fingers inside of her, and doesn’t question that thought until after, when Marcus is snoring into her shoulder and she’s awake, staring at the ceiling.

\- - -

It’s shortly after this that Bernie is called down to work on AAU, one of the doctors off sick. “We’re really stretched,” Serena says, and Bernie replies that she’s just glad to be of service. This is the first time they’ve seen each other, really, since the night in the cab, and Serena feels a little distant, a little pulled back, and it hurts. Serena tosses some charts into Bernie’s arms and scarpers off. Bernie knows she’s busy, but can’t help but wish she’d been given a bit more of a welcome.

The cases are fairly routine, but they come at a fast pace. It’s a very different environment, one that seems to be a better fit for Bernie’s particular skillset, but she doesn’t think that’s something she can say out loud, doesn’t want to step on any toes, offend any of the upper brass at the hospital. Certainly doesn’t know if Serena would welcome her presence on AAU in any capacity.

She sees how efficiently Serena runs the ward, how the staff responds to her. They like her, maybe even love her. They want to impress her, do their best for her. Bernie recognizes the feeling too. Serena is the sort of person she doesn’t want to let down, not now that she knows what it’s like to be in Serena’s good graces.

They operate together, banter coming easily over open bodies, faces hidden behind masks. It feels easier than any other interaction she’s had with Serena, when there’s nothing between them but a few inches of air. 

“The light blue suits you,” Serena says, at the end of the day, having invited Bernie into her office for a cup of tea. She’s sitting in one of the visitor’s chairs, Serena behind her desk. Bernie looks down at the scrubs, does like the color better than the maroon of Keller. She looks back up at Serena, who’s fiddling with her pen, anxious and awkward. 

“It was a good day,” is all Bernie says, because she can’t think of another way to say that this is the first time she’s truly enjoyed work in a while, that she likes working with Serena, that she’s missed being around her.

“About...about the other night,” Serena starts, studiously not looking at Bernie, her face pink and tense. Bernie leans forward, stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Nothing to talk about, if it makes you uncomfortable.” She doesn’t exactly know how to categorize her feelings about the kiss in the cab, her feelings since it happened, but isn’t sure she’d say it was uncomfortable. Confusing, more like. But she doesn’t want Serena to be uncomfortable, that’s the last thing she wants. Just wants Serena to be her friend again. Serena’s gaze flicks up to Bernie’s, then down to where her hand is touching Serena’s forearm. 

“Mm,” is all she says, and Bernie doesn’t know what that means, starts to pull her hand away, but Serena’s other hand comes up to cover it, holds Bernie’s hand in her own. They sit like that, for a long time, Serena's thumb rubbing against the back of Bernie's hand. The ward is quiet, on the other side of the door, and Bernie thinks she could spend the night like this, her hand in Serena’s. 

\- - -

Bernie is in the middle of prepping for surgery, walks into the scrub room when she sees there’s already a surgeon in her operating room, hits the button on the intercom. “If you haven’t already cracked that patient open, I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel. I’ve booked this theatre. I’m assuming you’d rather not be acquainted with the singular wrath of Serena Campbell.” 

The surgeon looks over his shoulder, wags his eyebrows, and it’s Marcus. Bernie’s breath catches, because it feels so invasive, to have Marcus here, in her hospital, at her place of work. “Just caught off guard,” she says when he asks, because what wife wouldn’t be thrilled to spend the day working with her husband.

“Major Berenice Wolfe, caught off guard,” he jokes and she can only give a strained smile. Hopes his path won’t cross Serena’s, doesn’t know if she can bear the thought of the two of them in front of her. It’s foolish, she thinks, to hope that, because they are friends. He asks after her sometimes and Bernie usually stumbles over a lie, that she doesn’t see Serena often, that they don’t spend much time together.

It’s better than the alternative, which is telling him that Serena Campbell is what gets her wet when she’s in bed with Marcus, that holding hands with Serena makes her feel more alive than a whole night with her husband. Bernie hasn’t sorted out these feelings yet, doesn’t know what they mean, is trying to chalk it up to the chaos of conforming to this new civilian life, but even that rings completely false in her mind.

And then she finishes up her surgery, walks down the hallway and sees Serena and Marcus walking together towards her. “He stole my theatre this morning, I threatened to set you on him,” Bernie says, smiling, and Serena turns to her with a look of ersatz innocence on her face.

“Whatever can you mean?” Her tone is flirtatious and coy and Bernie has to duck her head, tucks a curl of hair behind her ear because it feels so brazen, to do this in front of Marcus. Marcus, who seems oblivious to it all.

“Ms. Campbell’s been delightfully accommodating so far. I was hoping you might follow suit.” There it is, another light jab at Bernie, always poked in when she least expects it, always catching her off guard. Serena sees it, sees how it affects Bernie and offers a small smile, a condolence, because what else can she do. Marcus catches Bernie up on the case, and then Serena pulls Bernie away with a touch to her shoulder. 

“The problem is, Bernie, that AAU is currently full and I’m in budget meetings most of the day.” Bernie follows Serena as they walk from the patient’s bedside, so close to Serena that their shoulders are touching. Marcus follows, lagging slightly, and then Bernie is caught between Marcus and Serena, crosses her arms, pulls in on herself, wishes she could sink into the floor. So she focuses on the medicine, lets herself be drawn into the case and tries not to react when Serena pats her comfortingly on the shoulder as she takes her leave.

The patient in question a military woman and Bernie can’t help but want to do her best for a young woman just at the start of her career. She tries not to see herself in the patient, tries to maintain some distance, but can’t help but want to warn her of the unexpected perils that come with a life in service, how going home is the hardest part.

Marcus leads Bernie from the patient’s bedside, digs into his pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, hands them to her. “Not much good at hiding these. Found them in the dresser this morning,” he says, a stern look on her face. Bernie’s been trying to give it up, but the more tension she feels about her time with Marcus, the more of an urge she gets to light one up again. 

Serena finds her outside later, when she’s bundled in her sweatshirt, a cigarette in between her fingers. “Is it a problem working with Marcus?” she asks, delicately, sweetly, and Bernie doesn’t know how to say that the problem isn’t working with him, it’s being with him.

So she just scoffs, says, “No, we’re both grown ups.” Serena hands her a warm cup of coffee and Bernie holds it, grateful for the heat, appreciative that Serena’s taken the time to search her out, find her, check on her. Serena leans next to her, their bodies touching and Bernie almost can’t take it, just desperately wants to feel Serena’s lips on hers, when it’s purposeful and meant. Instead she turns away, makes an excuse that she needs to head back inside, takes her coffee with her. 

\- - -

When Marcus’s time as a locum at Holby is done, Serena practically forces Bernie to come to Albie’s with her. “You made it through,” she says, and Bernie understands the unspoken subtext, that Serena can see how strained things are between them. She smiles the small forced smile, pursed lips, and lets herself be led to Albie’s, Serena’s arm tucked in the crook of Bernie’s elbow, not letting her get away.

There’s not much of a hospital crowd this evening, and Bernie feels grateful for it, doesn’t want to see anyone. Anyone except Serena. She gets them a bottle of shiraz, a wine she’s come to develop a taste for, but only when she’s drinking with Serena. She pours the two glasses and Serena offers a toast. “To surviving,” is what she says, but her eyes are dark and glinting and Bernie thinks there’s something more.

They don’t get a second bottle, when the first one’s finished. They just sit in the corner, their chairs close, their knees touching. At some point, Serena’s hand rests on Bernie’s leg, her eyes darting to Bernie’s, unsure and scared, and Bernie just smiles, because this is what she wants. This is what feels good. 

Enough time goes by that it feels silly to not have something in their glasses, so Bernie offers to get up and buy a second round, but Serena stops her. “You bought the first bottle,” she says, her voice throaty and flirtatious and Bernie feels like her heart might thump out of her chest. 

“I don’t mind,” Bernie says, but doesn’t move to stand, not yet.

“Arm wrestle you for it,” Serena says and Bernie laughs outright at that. Serena looks a little offended and Bernie scrambles for damage control. 

“You don’t think I might have the upper hand there?” she asks, and it’s Serena’s turn to scoff. 

“Big macho army medic, are you? Scared to take on little old Serena Campbell?” Serena’s warming to it now, puts her elbow on the table in front of them, and Bernie can’t help but follow suit, fondness for Serena rattling around her chest. Their hands slide together, Serena’s grip firm, and Bernie feels how hard she’s trying, sees the exertion in Serena’s neck. So she makes a half-hearted grunt, tenses her body so it looks like she’s putting effort into it, and lets Serena win.

Her boisterous celebration is prize enough, and Serena leans in close, her breath in Bernie’s ear, “It’s not the dog in the fight, it’s the fight in the dog,” she whispers, and Bernie finds herself feeling quite flummoxed, flushed, glad for the brief respite from Serena’s presence so she can get her bearings. 

Serena comes back with two full glasses, somehow finds a way to sit even closer to Bernie, her hand going back to Bernie’s knee. So it wasn’t that she was uncomfortable, Bernie thinks, wasn’t that she didn’t want their brief kiss to have happened. Bernie wonders if it’s consumed Serena’s thoughts as much as it has consumed her own. 

Eventually they both admit they have to go home, that there’s only so long they can stay here, in this liminal space, where Serena can have her hand on Bernie’s thigh and they can arm wrestle and flirt and it doesn’t mean anything. They walk outside, braced for the cold, mostly sober, and Bernie turns to face Serena before they have to part ways. 

“About the other -” She’s cut off mid-sentence by Serena’s mouth on hers, a kiss that starts gently enough, tentative, unsure. And then Bernie opens her mouth, her arms going around Serena’s back, one hand toying with the short hair at the nape of her neck. Oh, the soft feel of Serena Campbell’s neck, the silky strands of her hair. The warmth of her body pressed against Bernie’s. 

Serena’s tongue finds its way into Bernie’s mouth and Bernie almost feels like any last drop of wine is being excavated from the inside of her cheeks, so thoroughly is she being tasted. She hums in the back of her throat, can’t hold Serena close enough. And when they break apart, Bernie is loath to end their contact, little kisses to Serena’s lips.

Serena’s eyes are bright, shining, and she looks like she could conquer the world. “Sorry,” she whispers, without sounding the least bit contrite. 

“Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” Bernie says before she can stop herself, but it’s the truth. And Serena’s answering smile, the deep creases like parentheses on either side of her mouth, is enough to make Bernie go in for a second taste, another kiss to Serena’s perfect lips, a kiss her to cheek, her ear, her neck, there are so many places to taste on Serena, so many things she’s never tasted before. So many things she can’t wait to taste again.

\- - -

Bernie sleeps on the couch when she gets home that night, could tell herself it’s because she doesn’t want to wake Marcus, but the truth of it is that she just doesn’t want to be in the same bed as Marcus, wants to spend her night thinking only of Serena.

She’s never been with a woman, despite all the rumors about women in the army, about girls in Catholic school. But when she thinks about it, she remembers admiring her coaches, the tanned women who taught her lacrosse, timed her sprints. She thinks about her anatomy professor at university, a tall brunette with crow’s feet and a voice like honey. Her past is dotted with women she’s found attractive, women she can still picture clear as day. Women that make her heart flutter in a way that Marcus never has.

She’s not cruel enough to say that she never loved Marcus, thinks of him as one of her very best mates, or he was, before she’d spent most of her time away in the army, building a family of her own in the desert, neglecting the one she left behind in England. 

She didn’t even mind sex with Marcus, found it good enough, had never really known any better. Twenty-five years of marriage didn’t give her a whole lot time to experiment, to sleep around, but she was never really interested in that either. Work and medicine and the army, those were the things that mattered to her, and when Marcus proposed, it felt like it was her duty to say yes, and Bernie has never been one to shy away from duty.

She calls Serena, from the couch, the clock on her phone saying it’s after one in the morning. But Serena picks up on the first ring, her voice a little sleepy, distant, as if her face is pressed into a pillow, and Bernie smiles at the image.

“I just wanted to hear your voice,” she says, quiet, conscious of the fact that there are two people asleep upstairs. Serena murmurs something that Bernie can’t quite catch, says, “What was that?”

“You can hear my voice just as well tomorrow morning at Pulses,” Serena says, more clearly. Bernie thinks maybe she’s moved to lay on her back, would guess her eyes are still closed, the phone just resting against her ear.

“What we did tonight….,” Bernie starts, then trails off, not sure of where to go from there. How to say it was everything she’s been dreaming of, thinking of, for weeks now. Months even. “I liked it,” she says after a bit. There’s nothing from Serena and Bernie wonders if she’s fallen back asleep. 

“Me too,” Serena says finally and Bernie can hear the rustle of sheets. “What about Marcus?” In all of Bernie’s time knowing Serena, she’s never known Serena to beat around the bush. She’s direct in her questions when she needs to be. 

“I don’t know,” Bernie says, a little helplessly, because it’s true, because she doesn’t know what this means. All she knows is that she’d rather drive across town and slide into Serena’s bed than walk upstairs to her own, that’s the only answer she has. “It feels like it’s over. But neither of us have admitted it.” Bernie’s never been good at failure, never able to take defeat sitting down.

“That takes some time,” Serena says, and Bernie thinks she probably knows, having ended a marriage herself. There’s another pause, a long silence, and Bernie closes her eyes, doesn’t want this conversation to end, doesn’t want to have to hang up on Serena. “What we did tonight, I want to do again.” Her tone is bold, brave, and Bernie is so grateful for it. She feels the thrum in the pit of her stomach, thinking about Serena, about Serena  _ wanting _ her.

“Me too,” she says, hears sheets rustle over the phone again. “You’re the first...the first woman I’ve kissed.” It feels important to tell her that, to let her know that this is new for Bernie too. 

“I once kissed a lady at a party in Stepney, I’ll have you know.” Serena’s smiling, Bernie can hear it in her voice. “Quite chaste and on a dare. Nothing like...nothing like with you.” There’s a breathiness now, her bravery just a little bit of an act, Bernie thinks. They’re both scared by this, as much as they both want it.

Bernie thinks how easy it would be to keep Serena talking, to slide a hand into her knickers and get herself off to the sound of Serena’s voice, wonders if that’s going too far. Instead, she massages her breast with her free hand, pulling at her nipple, feeling it go erect at the sound of Serena’s sleepy laugh. She gasps a little into the phone and Serena immediately asks if she’s all right.

“Fine, fine. Just.” In for a penny, in for a pound, Wolfe, she thinks to herself. “I like the sound of your voice.” And moves her hand down her smooth stomach, under the elastic on her pants, feels how wet she is already. 

“I like the sound of yours too, Major,” Serena says, silky and smooth and Bernie slides two fingers inside herself, curls them ever so slightly. And then Serena keeps talking, tells Bernie about the first time she saw her, sitting at the bar. Says how pretty she looked, how beautiful, how nervous she was to make a good impression. Talks about Bernie’s hair, golden and wavy and something she’s thought about running her hands through for weeks. All the while, Bernie works at herself, quietly panting, until Serena says, finally, “You taste like red wine and cigarettes,” and Bernie lets herself come, a sharp intake of breath, her body taut. 

“Think you can sleep now, Bernie?” Serena says, a note of smugness in her voice, and Bernie, boneless in her pleasure, her satisfaction, can only mutter an agreement. “See you in the morning. And I rather think the coffee is on you.”

\- - -

Bernie feels like she must be blaring out signals that she’s falling for Serena Campbell, worries that it reads across her face, because it’s all she can think about. She lounges at Pulses, having beaten Serena to work for the first time in recent memory, is trying to feign a casualness she does not feel. 

And Serena manages to come up behind her, surprise her with a morning salutation in her ear and Bernie can’t get her heart to stop pounding. They stand close at the counter, so close, their shoulders brushing, their thighs touching, and Bernie thinks everyone standing in line behind them must know. 

Bernie buys Serena a scone, fresh and warm, just to see the look of happiness on her face as she bites into the cinnamon dough, the steam pinking her cheeks. They take a few minutes together, before Bernie has to head to Keller, to leave Serena behind. She lets her hand gently touch Serena’s in the elevator, pinky to pinky, a small gesture that makes Serena’s cheeks flush. 

The world feels different, new, exciting. Bernie can’t quite believe all it took was kissing Serena Campbell to change her outlook, thinks maybe accepting that she no longer fit into the mold of Marcus Dunn’s wife is helping that too. To know that Serena doesn’t expect that of her, doesn’t seem to want that of her. She doesn’t have to be that person, not if she doesn’t want to be.

She stops by AAU when her shift is over, sees Serena in her office, bent over some paperwork, would bet that it’s board files from the frown on Serena’s cheeks. It’s Serena’s own fault for getting an MBA on top of her medical degree. Bernie knocks on the wall of the office, though the door is open, and Serena looks up, her face breaking into a smile immediately. 

“How was your day?” she asks, gesturing for Bernie to sit. Bernie shakes her head.

“Can’t stay long, must get home. Something I have to do.” The alacrity at which Serena’s expression changes is startling, but Bernie thinks she must know what it is Bernie is going to go home and do. 

“Call me, when it’s over. If you like. Come over, even, if you need another place to stay. Jason’s not back til Thursday.” Serena freezes, as if the implication of her words has hit her only after they left her mouth.

“I might just,” Bernie says, because she thinks even if nothing happens, to have Serena to go to after all is said and done feels like the best offer she’s had in a long time. She closes the door behind her, moves forward into the office, leans down, and kisses Serena, her face tilted up to Bernie’s, her mouth pursed and waiting. “I didn’t want to wait to do that again,” she admits when she pulls back, and Serena just smiles, her face blissful. “See you later.”

“Later,” Serena agrees, turns back to her paperwork, but Bernie can see the flush of her cheeks. 

The whole of the drive home, all she can think about is the look on Serena’s face, the taste of her, the feel of her. Thinks that’s not what she should be focusing on. Tries to come up with the words to say to Marcus instead. Doesn’t know how to break this news gently, doesn’t know how to end something like this. She wishes she could just give him her two week’s notice, say she’s found another opportunity and move on. Supposes nothing is that perfunctory when feelings are involved.

Marcus is sitting at the kitchen table when Bernie lets herself in, a pint of beer sitting in front of him, untouched. “A porter from St. James told me today he saw you at Albie’s last night. Kissing someone.” Bernie freezes in the doorway, not the greeting she was anticipating. She would never have kissed Serena so openly, not if she’d known Marcus had a coworker in the place.

“Yes,” is all she says because Marcus has just said ‘someone,’ which means that maybe he doesn’t know it was Serena, that it was a woman. Wonders if it’s easier for him if she’s just been unfaithful in the normal way. 

“How long, Bernie?” he asks, his voice hoarse, finally looking up at her. 

“Last night was...was the first time,” she says, because the accidental kiss in the cab doesn’t count. “But our marriage, Marcus. Our marriage hasn’t been good. Not for a while.” She doesn’t want to offer it as an excuse, doesn’t want to make it seem like he has any part to play in this. How were any of them to know that Serena Campbell would be the linchpin in this scenario. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’ll move out,” she says. He doesn’t look at her again, just stares at his beer, bubbling and heady, and Bernie walks out of her house. 

She sends Serena a text from her car, before she pulls out of the driveway. Says she’s coming over. Bernie drives to Serena’s, she’s always had a good memory for directions, sees that Serena’s put the front light on for her, feels the warmth from that all the way down to her toes.

The door is open before she can knock, and Serena envelops her in a hug. “You’re so brave,” she whispers into Bernie’s hair. “That must have been hard.” Bernie doesn’t think it was hard, really. Thinks the difficulties will come later, when the details are teased out, when they meet with arbitrators, or lawyers, or whatever Marcus wants. 

“I think the worst is yet to come,” is all she says, but holds onto Serena tightly. Lets herself be led to bed, changes into a set of pale teal scrubs Serena no doubt scrounged up from work. Serena doesn’t push anything, just holds Bernie close, kisses her forehead. 

“Let’s just sleep. We have time,” she says, and Bernie lets her eyes close, nestles into the crook of Serena’s neck, and feels the welcome call of sleep come much sooner than it has in months.

\- - - 

Bernie wakes up in an unfamiliar room, pale yellow walls and large windows, curtains drawn but not quite keeping the sun at bay. And when she breathes in, she smells Serena, the light floral scent from her shampoo, the tangy aroma from her perfume, all mixed together. Serena’s leg is between Bernie’s, her arm resting in the indent of Bernie’s waist, her face lined from the pillowcase. 

Bernie gently smooths a lock of hair from her forehead, follows the gesture with a kiss. Serena murmurs, stretches, rolls onto her back. “Good thing we both have the morning off,” she says, opening one eye and squinting at Bernie. 

It used to be that Bernie never knew what to do with a whole morning to herself, never good at sleeping in or relaxing, particularly, but it seems that a morning off with Serena involves enthusiastic kissing, tentative exploration of the portions of skin covered by their shirts, quiet murmurs of affection. 

Bernie likes the feeling of Serena’s stomach, of the heft of her breasts. She finds dimples at the base of Serena’s spine, trails up her back to kiss the nape of her neck, the first place she felt Serena’s skin and fell in love. Serena seems to like the attention, arching like a pleased cat. She seems to feel no embarrassment, no hesitation. Somewhere along the way, she made up her mind that Bernie is the one she’s attracted to and didn’t look back. The idea of being with a woman no longer seems to give her pause. Bernie is envious of her conviction, tries to make herself feel that brave.

It’s easier, when Serena’s hands slide under the scrub top, when her mouth is hot against her collarbone, her teeth biting into Bernie’s skin ever so slightly. She feels braver with this woman beside her.

And when they’ve touched and explored and enjoyed to satisfy their morning curiosity, their morning lust, Bernie gives herself over to the heady pleasure of kissing Serena, something still so new and heady and beautiful, a fragile thing that she’s afraid of breaking. She slides her tongue into Serena’s mouth for the first time, forgives the morning taste that lingers, tugs Serena’s bottom lip between her teeth, holds her head between her hands, in disbelief that she’s allowed to do this.

“Coffee is in order, I think,” Serena says, pulls Bernie up from the rumpled sheets, doesn’t let go of her hand. “And then we’ll see what the rest of the day has in store.”


	9. hold your head high, fingers to the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> fanchonmoreau asked for: Serena comes out to Ellie, preferably none death involved.
> 
> so this is basically like serena and elinor: the fic? five times serena tells ellie something? i don't know, who knows ever, really.

When Serena was a young girl, she often thought about whether or not she’d want children. She had baby dolls and stuffed bears, but spent more time pretending they were patients on an operating table than something to cuddle and nurture. She spent her years in university and graduate school thinking that her career was too important to her to sacrifice it for motherhood, that she couldn’t afford to spend time on maternity leave, that her male colleagues would surpass her in her absence. 

And then she met Edward and he convinced her that they would be partners, that they would share the time they took off, that she wouldn’t be alone in it. He wanted something that was made of the two of them, he said. “I bet you’ll be beautiful pregnant,” he said, and his eyes glinted and he kissed her, and she felt treasured. 

She never felt beautiful pregnant. She felt large, whale-like, waddling around in orthopedic shoes, taking up more space with every passing day, mood swings and morning sickness. Edward took care of her cravings, at least for a bit. He would bring her ice cream and pickle sandwiches, would rub her feet when she’d worked all day. He liked to spoon behind her, his hands resting on her burgeoning belly. He would nose into her long hair, kiss her neck, and tell her how excited he was for their daughter to come.

Serena cut her hair, right before her due date. The high heat of July, the stress of her pregnancy, the feeling of being stir crazy, it all overtook her and the one thing she had control over was the mop of hair that stuck to her neck. So she took herself to a salon and let the sympathetic stylist cut it right off, the air feeling deliciously cool against her nape. Edward didn’t like it, told her as much, and they had a fight that left him on the couch for several nights.

But he’s there when she gives birth, by her side, holding ice chips in a small plastic cup, letting her clench his hand tightly in her own. And she yells and screams and says this is the only child she’ll ever have. And then, squalling, Elinor comes into the world. Edward picked out her name, wanted her to have the same initials as his own. Serena didn’t mind much, thought it was pretty enough, and gave her mother’s name as Elinor’s middle name.

Serena holds Elinor close, when she’s been cleaned and swaddled. She holds her next to her heart and looks at the thing that she’s made, live and whole and breathing, touches her cheek so gently and says, “You’re mine.”

\- - -

Divorce is a difficult concept to explain to a child, especially a small one. Serena wonders if she needs to put Elinor in therapy, if she’ll retain some deep-seated emotional trauma from this. But Edward broke all of his promises to Serena, and she can’t abide that. Won’t stand for it. 

He’s left Serena to raise their child, refusing to take time off work, arguing his way out of changing nappies in the middle of the night, missing her first steps and feeling no remorse. Serena reads medical journals during Elinor’s naps, hires a nanny part-time so she can at least make an appearance at work without feeling as though she’s completely abandoning her child. But her work is important to her, integral to who she is, and as much as she loves her daughter, she won’t give up her career. 

And then Edward comes home with a lipstick stained shirt and a messy tie, and the scent of another woman’s perfume on his neck. Serena banishes him to the couch until she can think of what it is she wants to do, has to banish him from her mind too, just so she can fall asleep. She brings Ellie into bed with her, cradles her close as her eyes drift shut, focusing on the breathing of her small daughter. 

“Your father and I won’t be living together anymore,” Serena tells Elinor the next afternoon, having made up her mind. Elinor doesn’t look up from her coloring book, her red hair obscuring her face. “We get to stay here, though. With all your toys and your friend Jill just next door.” It’s a small victory, keeping the house, keeping her life. She wasn’t the one who strayed, she doesn’t have to be the one who has to start over.

“Will I still see him?” Elinor asks, determinedly doing her best to color within the lines. Serena can’t help herself now, reaches out to touch Ellie’s cheek, lift her face so they can look at each other.

“Of course, sweetheart, if that’s what you want.” Ellie blinks, and goes back to her crayons. Serena thinks how resilient she seems. Young, but strong. That’s how Serena thinks of her daughter, hopes she’ll never lose that.

Edward moves out in fits and bursts, taking his time, drawing it out, making Serena’s life difficult, miserable, even. And through it all, she tries to shield Elinor from this part of her father, tries to smooth out the frowns and holds back the eye rolls when she has to talk about him. She’s seen from her work at the hospital how much impact even the smallest gesture from a parent can have on a child. She’s seen as much from her mother. 

Edward flaunts his infidelity, his affairs, and makes Serena feel small, unworthy. She’s worked hard in her life to be an independent woman, not to need validation from anyone, but she feels broken, let down, by the one person she trusted never to do that to her.

Elinor has nightmares, ones that wake her from the deepest slumber, and Serena is always there to wipe her hair back from her brow, to smooth the tears from her cheeks, to kiss her nose. She sometimes climbs into Ellie’s bed with her, scoops her close. “It’ll be all right,” she promises, knowing she’ll do everything in her power to make it so.

\- - -

Elinor stays willful, becomes headstrong, bossy. Clashes with Serena about everything. Gets drunk with her friends, flirts with drugs and boys, and Serena hates it all. She doesn’t always like the person Ellie has become, wonders how much blame she has to shoulder for that. Feels the guilt that comes with sometimes not even  _ liking _ your own child.

When Edward comes back into her life, works at Holby alongside Serena, desperate to prove himself worthy of her once more, she finds the familiarity of him comforting, amidst everything else, the chaos of their daughter, going through the world like a whirlwind. She finds he’s a shoulder to lean on, something she hasn’t had in ages.

She invites Elinor to meet up for a coffee, to meet somewhere outside their home, more neutral territory. Elinor is late, her hair streaked with blue, large hoops in her ears and smudged make up around her eyes. Serena refrains from saying how horrible she looks, simply gives her a tenner and tells her to get what she wants from the counter, doesn’t expect to get any change back, no matter what the order totals to.

“Your father and I,” she starts, when Elinor’s seated across from her, coffee in hand, feeling more nervous about this conversation than telling Ellie about their divorce. Of course, she’s more sure of Elinor’s grasp on the information she’s being told this time. “Your father and I are - well, we’re getting back together. At least - at least we’re trying to.” 

Elinor looks at her with harsh eyes, cold and judging and so like her mother’s. “Oh, Mum. He  _ cheated  _ on you.” Serena wishes, for a moment, she hadn’t been quite so candid about the dissolution of her marriage when Elinor asked. A fine example for daughter, giving a second chance to a philanderer. It sounds so trite to tell her, “Do as I say, not as I do,” but it’s what she wants Elinor to know, that she should have higher standards for herself.

As much as Serena longs for the comfort and stability of having a partner again, of having the known quantity of Edward around, she hates herself in that moment for getting back together with him, for the look that is on her daughter’s face, for not being as strong and independent as she wants to be. 

And Edward cocks it up, sleeps with a nurse, drinks his way around the hospital, endangers a patient, embarrasses Serena, personally and professionally. She ends things with him, for good, forever. She can’t trust him at work, and cannot trust him at home. The things are intrinsically linked for her. His time as a locum at Holby ends and when he leaves work on his last day, Serena can’t help but hope she’ll never see him again, though it’s a foolish hope. They have a daughter together, a beautiful, headstrong daughter who just said to her mother, “I told you so,” when she finds out her parents are breaking up once more.

\- - -

Serena doesn’t often tell Elinor about the men she dates, but when things with Robbie seem to be tending towards getting serious, she goes for her old standby - inviting Ellie out for a coffee. She runs lates, a complication during surgery allowing Ellie to beat her to the coffee shop. She’d texted Ellie to say she wouldn’t be on time, gets only a thumbs up emoji in response, something she thinks Elinor uses ironically usually.

“What’s the news this time?” Elinor asks, her tone biting, something Serena has come to expect from her only daughter. She wistfully thinks of the time when they weren’t always at odds, when she thought of her daughter as an ally. 

“I’ve been seeing this man for a while now, he’s a police officer. He’s called Robbie and, well, it’s been going well. Quite well, as a matter of fact.” Serena looks down at her phone, blushing as she thinks of the weekend they spent together, the kiss goodbye in her car as he dropped her at the hospital. 

“Spare me, please. What’s he look like, then?” Elinor asks, taking a sip of her latte, a bit of foam sticking to her upper lip. 

Serena flicks to a picture of him on her phone, holds it up for Ellie to see. “Oh Mum,” she says, almost sympathetically. “You’re not bad looking for your age, you know! You could do better than him. He looks like a thumb!” She hands back the phone to Serena and it’s then that she decides not to tell her daughter about the dairy flecks on her face. 

“For my age? Thanks very much. Well, thumb or not, he and I are thinking of living together,” Serena says primly, and that’s that.

\- - -

She decides to call Elinor, when she finds out about Jason, when things with Robbie start to disintegrate. She can’t face that cold stare, that judgmental tone, doesn’t want to. She feels a little jangly, a little fragile, so much new information coming at her, a world of change fallen into her lap. So she pours herself a glass of wine and steels herself to call her daughter.

The line rings and rings and Serena doesn’t want to say everything she has to say in a message, she would’ve just texted her daughter if that was the case, so instead just says, “Call me, when you get this. It’s important.”

It’s a bottle of wine and forty-five minutes later when Elinor calls back, and Serena can hear the sounds of a dance club in the background. “Can you go some place quieter?” she asks, raising her voice to compensate for the noise she knows is all around Ellie. 

“Just a mo,” Elinor says, and then the sound is dampened and Serena feels like she can talk like a normal person. “What is it, Mum? You’ve got me a bit worried!” She doesn’t sound worried, she sounds like she may have had a few cocktails already, a little slurry in her words.

Serena decides she’ll say it outright, that she’ll call Ellie again in the morning, when she’s sobered up, but that it’s important to say the words now, out loud, to someone. “You’ve got a cousin. I’ve got a nephew. I had a sister.” The word  _ sister _ almost sticks in her throat because it seems so ridiculous that there should have been another person in the world that knew Adrienne, that shared her bloodline. “And Robbie and I have broken up.” 

Elinor is silent, and Serena doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. So she sips at her wine, waits for her daughter to say whatever comes to her mind, because that’s the way she’s always been. 

“Let’s go out for coffee,” Elinor finally suggests and Serena breathes out a sigh of relief. “Tomorrow, usual place. Eleven o’clock.” The line goes dead and Serena thinks her daughter is most likely about to toss back a few shots and complain about her mother’s overly complicated life to whoever will listen.

They do go out for coffee, and Serena tells Elinor about her cousin, about the challenging, difficult, loveable Jason, and how he’s coming to live with her. Hadn’t told Elinor about him before because she didn’t know how permanent it was all going to be. Didn’t want to inflict the infamous Ellie Campbell on Jason without knowing how involved she was going to be. 

Elinor says the right things about Robbie, says he’s a cad for not sticking by her, says she can’t wait to meet Jason. She’s putting on a show, somewhat, Serena thinks, but feels, too, that she’s gotten a bit of her daughter back, that there’s a maturity about Elinor that hasn’t always been there. She’s growing up. And then she says, “At least this means I won’t have to pack up my room from your house,” and Serena thinks the selfish bit of Elinor is still there, lurking at the edges. 

\- - - 

Serena likes to classify things, likes to know labels and be able to put everything in its place. As such, she has tried out the word ‘lesbian’ and isn’t quite sure it fits, though it gets the idea across handily enough. She’s heard enough callous things about people who identify as ‘bisexual’ that it makes her nervous to categorize herself that way out loud. In the end, she decides that she’s in love with who she’s in love with, and that, right now, happens to be Bernie Wolfe. It doesn’t mean she no longer notices when Idris Elba struts around in a finely tailored tuxedo, or that she doesn’t find the new barista at Pulses attractive, it just means that she feels a lurch in her stomach when Bernie smiles at her, and a tightness in her chest when they kiss. 

She wants to keep Bernie to herself, to keep this new thing a secret, private and sweet and sacred. Simultaneously, she wants to shout from the rooftops about Berenice Wolfe and the way she tastes, wants everyone to know that she gets to be in love with her and is loved back. She wears Bernie’s affection like a beautiful coat, wraps herself in it. 

Serena does, she supposes, have to tell Elinor about Bernie. Has to tell her daughter that her old mum has fallen in love with a woman, a scarred, taciturn, sarcastic ex-army medic. Coffee doesn’t seem right for this, and Serena thinks Ellie is too likely to make a scene in public. So on a night when Jason is out with Alan and Bernie is scheduled to work the late shift, Serena makes Elinor’s favorite meal, buys a bottle of her favorite wine and decides to woo her daughter’s good favor. 

She tries to practice what she’ll say, feels nervous and on edge the whole evening, almost burns the pasta due to her apprehension. Then she hears the sound of Elinor’s key in the lock, hears the door open, and knows there’s no turning back now. Bernie has shoes by the door, a coat on the rack. Her presence is tangible in this house, and Elinor will notice it from the second she steps inside.

“Is someone else here?” she calls from the front hallway and Serena closes her eyes, takes a breath. She bustles out of the kitchen, wine in hand, holds it out to Ellie, who takes it, her face suspicious. “Whose boots are these? They’re nice.”

Trust Elinor to like Bernie’s taste in footwear. Bernie’s style is streamlined, elegant, functional, architectural. So different from Serena’s flowy shirts and floral patterns. “They belong to - to Bernie.” She cocks her head toward the dining room, gestures for Ellie to follow her to the table where the salad is already laid out. 

“Bernie? Like your coworker?” Serena knows she’s talked about Bernie a lot, to anyone who will listen. Some days Bernie is all she can think of, and she can’t stop it from dribbling out of her mouth. It feels sappy and ridiculous, to feel this way at her age, but she’s giddy at the thought of the woman she’s in love with, a feeling that’s new and different and scary and exciting all at once.

“Mm. Yes. She spends a lot of time here and, ah, well,” Serena spears a leafy green with her fork, twirls it over the bowl for a bit, lets some of the dressing drip off. “We’re in a relationship.” She isn’t looking at her daughter, doesn’t want Elinor to take away any of the happiness she feels, doesn’t know how to stop the inevitable from happening. 

“A relationship? Like. Like she’s your girlfriend?” Elinor is incredulous, her silverware forgotten, her salad pushed in front of her. 

“Mm, well neither of us is exactly a girl anymore, Ellie,” Serena says, because they haven’t defined what they are, but she rather feels like Bernie is a bit more permanent than the term ‘girlfriend’ implies. 

“So you’re gay now?” Elinor, like her mother, has never been one to mince words, and Serena finds herself flinching slightly at the tone. 

“I wouldn’t say that, either. I’m just. Well, I’m excessively fond of Bernie, and that’s all there is to it, and she’s much better looking than Robbie, so you should at least be proud of me for trading up in the world.” Serena puts her fork down too, crosses her arms, looks at her daughter straight on, her gaze hard and challenging. 

“Show me a picture,” Elinor says, holds out her hand, and Serena sighs, grabs her phone from where it’s resting next to her knife, doubling as a timer for the garlic bread in the oven. She swipes past a message from Bernie saying she hopes the dinner is going well and finds a picture Jason took of the two of them at Albie’s one night. He’d said something about not having enough pictures of Serena, or of Bernie, that his house with his mother was filled with photos, and Serena’s heart melted and she let him use her phone, snap a picture of the two of them, leaning close to each other, heads almost touching, faces flushed with wine and happiness. 

“She  _ is _ pretty,” Ellie says begrudgingly. “And you look happy.” She hands the phone back. “I can’t believe your love life is more interesting than mine by a mile. I’m supposed to be the one experimenting!”

“Bernie isn’t an experiment,” Serena says sternly, locking her phone. She wishes Bernie was here, thinks Bernie has gone through this, coming out to her children. Serena wants Bernie’s expertise, her calmness, her humor. Anything but this unfortunate sniping that is always how her conversations go with Elinor these days. 

The rest of the dinner is stilted because Elinor knows she’s said the wrong thing but also isn’t one to apologize. Serena isn’t willing to let her off the hook, so they talk haltingly about Ellie’s courses at school and Serena’s workload, and they both seem relieved when the meal is over and Elinor can leave. 

The door closes with a quiet snick behind Ellie and Serena feels some of the tension evaporate, feels her shoulders sag. She rinses the dishes in the sink, loads the dishwasher, pours herself the rest of the wine and settles into the couch. Reaches for her phone to text Bernie that it’s done, that she doesn’t really know how it all went, but sees that she has a text from her daughter. 

“She’s prettier than Liberty,” is all it says and Serena thinks that’s the closest she’ll get to approval from Elinor. Thinks it’ll have to do.


	10. i can't compete with the stars in the sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _anonymous asked for:_ Berena prompt if you would want to: Bernie doesn't recover from the IED as quickly as in the show and she  & Serena end up meeting in a different situation (whether it's doctor/patient or a setting completely removed would be up to you)
> 
> _"anonymous" asked for:_ hi hello if you're still taking prompts could you please please do an AU of your coffee shop AU? perhaps one where Serena owns the shop and idk!!!! coffee love and shit xoxo someone you definitely don't know
> 
> if you've ever talked to me about my fic, you know that i spent a million years trying to decide who would work at the coffee shop in my other coffee shop au, and so thanks for the prompt to write the other side of the coffee shop au!!! also as i was working on the outline for it, i realized it dovetailed with this other prompt. two birds! one stone! great!

Serena’s is a small coffee shop, nestled on Holby City’s high street, one of the few non-chain places left. There’s a Starbuck’s on the corner, a Pret a Manger across the way, but Serena’s is an institution, holds its own against the monolith of capitalism. The front wall is almost entirely windows, able to open up like garage doors when the weather is nice enough. There are comfy sofas and footstools, there are tables with mismatched wooden chairs. It’s like coming for a cup of coffee in your best friend’s kitchen. And the woman who owns it all, Serena Campbell, has a talent for making everyone feel welcome in her restaurant. 

Serena is in her fifties (only just, she’ll add as a reminder), tall enough, and pretty enough. She has a generous mouth, a wide smile that makes her whole face light up, and eyes that sparkle with flirtatiousness and possibility. She makes a mean cup of coffee, to boot, and has a memory for everyone that comes in through her doors, remembering orders from months past and making each customer feel the warm sense of belonging when they walk inside. 

Her staff, too, are competent and loyal and friendly. Morven is practically Serena’s right hand woman, eager to prove herself, quick on the uptake. She’s young, but doesn’t seem so, is nothing but reliable. Adrian Fletcher, or Fletch, is chatty with the women, always a wink and a flirt and the occasionally extra shot in a drink. Serena doesn’t mind, it keeps them coming back. And Jason rounds it out, a scarily intelligent young man with a mind for remembering. When Serena forgets something, she can count on Jason to remind her. He knows everything about coffee, and keeps finding new documentaries and books on the subject every day, keeps them all in line about it.

Serena’s made herself a bit of a family, here in Holby, in her coffee shop. She likes the people around her, likes being in charge of her own domain, likes the life she’s made for herself. She lives above her shop, the aroma of coffee and pastry drifting up through the floorboards, making her home smell homey and beautiful. It’s a quiet life she’s created, small, but meaningful, and she feels as if that’s good enough, that she’s willing to settle for that.

\- - - 

Major Berenice Wolfe is known to be a little foolhardy, a little bit of a showboat. As a trauma medic, stationed in Kandahar, she’s presented with more than a few opportunities to show off her skill, to take risks. Even with all of that, it’s still a shock to everyone when she’s injured in a roadside IED explosion, is helicoptered out of the desert and all the way back to London. The anesthetist, Alex Dawson, survives the explosion with nary a scratch, still takes the helicopter with Bernie, doesn’t leave her side. 

Bernie is transferred to Holby City Hospital, hates the first surgeons she meets, doesn’t know that she entirely trusts them to fix what’s wrong. She has to practically guide them to the right answers, to their surgery tactics. It doesn’t instill her with a great amount of confidence. 

When she wakes up again, stitched together, sore and aching, she sees Alex is sitting in a chair by her bedside, her head resting on her fist, sleeping, a drop of drool threatening to spill from her lips. Bernie is tempted to try to throw something, to jostle her awake, but knows it’s best if she doesn’t move. “Alex,” she hisses, her throat raspy and dry. If nothing else, she wants Alex awake to fetch a cup of water. “Alex,” she tries again, a little louder, and this time Alex stirs, her eyes fluttering open. Bernie can see the momentary panic of waking up and not knowing where she is in Alex’s face, but then Alex relaxes, smiles, says good morning.

“Marcus is on his way,” she says, and Bernie tries to smile at that news, tries to forget the fight she had with him before she left the last time (it really was her last time leaving, she thinks, the army won’t want her back now). Alex is a family friend, at this point, doesn’t have anyone to go home to, comes home with Bernie often as not. Sometimes she seems to get along better with Bernie’s husband and children than Bernie does herself. Alex hasn’t abandoned them, Alex hasn’t gone for months without seeing them. She’s just the visitor that comes home with Bernie, has exciting stories and always has a new candy in her pocket for Cameron and Charlotte, even when they’re too old for candy and trinkets.

When Marcus does arrive, he acts as if they’ve never fought, just holds tightly to Bernie’s hand and says over and over that he’s glad she’s okay. He brushes his lips against her forehead, and Bernie tries not to pull away from the touch. She reminds herself that she loves him, that he’s her husband, that silly fights don’t matter when it’s been twenty-five years. Alex says something about going back to Kandahar, that she’s been away too long, squeezes Bernie’s shoulder, gives Marcus a pat on the back, and slips out. Bernie wonders if she’ll ever see Alex again, the sadness of saying goodbye to her friend all wrapped up in her emotions about Marcus and the army and her injury.

Bernie is not a good patient. She would be the first one to say that about herself. She isn’t good at being idle, isn’t good at sitting still, two things which are required for this particular recovery. It feels like too long before she’s even allowed to start walking again, short, hobbling steps from the bed to the chair and back again. Doctors and nurses come in and out to check on her progress, to frown over her chart. She’s not healing as quickly as any of them want. She’s still feeble, tired, sore. She’s given a cane for walking, leans heavily on it, hates that she’s dependent on it. Even when she’s discharged, she can’t walk far without it, even needs it to get up the stairs in her own home.

\- - -

Serena doesn’t always open the coffee shop, sometimes she leaves that to Morven, but when she does, she finds a certain pleasure in making sure everything is just so before flipping the sign to “Open” and unlocking the doors. She wipes down the tables, refills the sugar, pours out the cream. Everything has its order and its place, and there’s satisfaction in making sure it all looks nice. There’s a woman lingering outside the door when Serena unlocks, so she opens the door, leans out into the street. “We’re open, if you want to come in for a cup of coffee. Afraid I can’t offer anything stronger just now.” She winks, and the woman looks at her appraisingly. She’s about Serena’s age, pale blonde hair and slightly stooped posture - it takes Serena a moment to notice the cane she’s leaning on. 

It seems she’s decided that she does want a cup of coffee, follows Serena inside, the morning sun making the whole space seem warm and cozy. “Sit anywhere you like, that’s the benefit of being an early bird. I’ll bring you a cup - cream or sugar?” She doesn’t usually dote on customers, figures they know best how to prepare their own coffee, but she thinks, in this particular case, it might be to the woman’s benefit to offer her some help.

“Black is fine. Strong and hot is all I care about.” She smiles a small smile, like it pains her a bit, but she acquiesces to Serena, finds a comfy chair in the corner to settle into, eases herself slowly into the cushions, trying to hide the grimace on her face. “I’m Serena, by the way,” she calls from behind the counter, starting the coffee for the day. She pulls a croissant out from the display case, chocolate and buttery, decides to give it to this new customer, doesn’t know quite why.

“I guessed this might be your establishment. Berenice - Bernie Wolfe,” the woman says from the chair, and Serena smiles over the edge of the coffee maker at her. It’s a few short minutes before it’s done, she’s got time to warm up the pastry, puts it on a little plate, brings them both over to Bernie. 

“What do I owe you?” Bernie asks and Serena shakes her head. 

“First visit is on the house, that’s how we get you to come back,” she says, smiles again, her broad, full smile that creases her cheeks. Bernie gives her that appraising look again, like she’s trying to decide if this is charity or pity, then looks down, and Serena doesn’t know what she’s decided. 

Serena wonders if she can ask what the cane is for, if it’s better not to dance around the issue. She’s known for being a little nosy, too much so for her own good, but decides to keep her mouth shut. She likes the look of Bernie, doesn’t want to scare her off. Bernie is pretty in a way that defies description, because her face is an odd mixture of parts, a long, thin nose, almost no upper lip, a few small moles dotting her cheeks, sad, dark eyes. Her fringe hangs past her brows, getting caught in her long eyelashes. Her hair is a little wild, a little messy, all curls and unruliness. But with her face turned just so, she looks beautiful and it almost takes Serena’s breath away. 

She knows she’s lingered too long without saying anything because Bernie fidgets a little, her finger twitching against the mug she’s just picked up. She looks up at Serena once more and says, “Thanks,” in a quiet a voice, and Serena figures that’s her dismissal. It’s just as well another customer comes in, one of her regulars; Arthur Digby. He sees Serena, tries to hide his disappointment that she isn’t Morven, but she sees his face fall. 

“She’ll be in after 10, Arthur,” she says as she makes her way back behind the counter. “The usual?” Her hands are already moving to make his order before he can even nod. She sees Bernie watching her, sees her bite into the pastry, feels glad that she brought Bernie the croissant. 

The morning crowd picks up, people on their way to work, and Bernie slips away without Serena’s notice. It’s only when she goes to clear the table that she sees a napkin with “Thank you - B” written on it, and a five pound note stuck underneath. “Cheeky,” Serena thinks, slides the fiver into her apron pocket with the napkin, pats it once to make sure it’s secure, and goes back to her day.

\- - -

Bernie isn’t sure what to do with herself. She spends a lot of time at the house, reading books, catching up on the television she’s missed while being away. Charlotte keeps talking about Netflix and Bernie barely knows what that is. She figures out how to get it on the TV, spends a few hours watching back to back episodes about a women’s prison in the United States. 

Cameron came to visit, once, right after she was discharged. He’s living his life in London, happy and away from Holby. It’s good to see him smile, to see him carefree. He’s always felt a bit under Charlotte’s shadow, Bernie thinks, always felt like a black sheep. But he’s got his own life now, and seems to be making a go of it, and that’s all she can ask for. She doesn’t know how to make up for the past, how to make him see that she loves him just as much as Charlotte, loves him for not being perfect just as much as she loves Charlotte for how much she tries to fit into Bernie’s expectations. 

Things are strained with Charlotte, too. It’s her last year at home, before university, and Bernie thinks she feels a bit overshadowed by Bernie’s injury, when it’s supposed to be a year celebrating her successes in school. She’s done well on her tests, has gotten into every program she’s applied to. Bernie tells her every day how proud she is, but Charlotte brushes it off, like she doesn’t know how to be around her mum all the time. Bernie supposes it’s true, they’ve mostly communicated through email for so much of her life that it must be a bit strange to suddenly be so close all the time. 

She thinks about trying to get back into the workforce, but knows she can’t handle long surgeries, can’t stand without assistance for that long, doesn’t trust herself. She hardly wants to get into the administrative side of things, having been chastised more than once for improperly filing paperwork in the army. She isn’t sure what else there is to do, so she gives herself the time to figure it out. She’s got money still coming from the army, enough to supplement Marcus’s income. They’re hardly a frivolous family, they don’t make grand purchases. It’s enough, for now. 

She just wishes she had something to fill the time while she figures out how to fill her time. 

She thinks about the coffee shop, Serena’s, thinks about the woman who owns it. That felt like a place where she could exist away from the chafing expectations of her family. She makes up her mind to go back, makes up her mind that she will walk there, too. Her physical therapist says she needs to walk more, not just around hospital hallways when she comes in for her appointments. She still needs the cane, still hates that she does, but it’s better than lying prone in bed all day, so she’ll take what she can get. Her back is still stiff and sore, her scars tender. She rubs cream into them every day, watching the redness, the pinkness fade. 

Bernie showers, dresses in the civilian clothes that have now become her uniform, a white shirt and black jeans. She wears shoes with support, not bought for their style, ones that embarrass Charlotte when they go out together. “They’re old lady shoes,” she whispers under her breath and Bernie just laughs. “Your mum is an old lady, Charlotte,” she says back.

The walk to the coffee shop isn’t long, but it is a little tedious and Bernie thinks she’ll have to find earphones for the next time she makes this trek, is surprised at herself for already planning a next time. The coffee shop is already open and bustling by this time, it’s after nine o’clock, but Bernie can see Serena behind the counter. She stands in line, four people ahead of her, and watches Serena. She has a smile for every customer, a quick, efficient way about her that doesn’t seem cold. 

And then she spots Bernie over the shoulder of the people in front of her, and her face splits into a smile. Bernie feels a flip in her stomach at the sight of it, smiles back, the ends of her mouth tipping up, the corners of her eyes, too. And then Serena snaps her gaze back to the patron in front of her, and Bernie tries to stop staring.

“I told you you’d be back,” Serena says, when Bernie gets to the head of the line. Bernie smiles again, finds herself at a loss for words in the face of Serena’s sunny personality. “Black coffee again? Or something a little more adventurous?” Bernie feels disarmed again.

“Why not make me your favorite?” is all she can come up with, but that earns her a wink and a smile and that feels good enough. “And a pain au chocolat, if you’ve got one.” 

“Of course,” Serena says, enters it all into the register, and Bernie hands over the cash when she sees the total. 

“Keep the change,” Bernie says, smiles again, wishes she was better at witty repartee, but hasn’t quite found that part of herself again since coming back home. It was there once, it’ll be there again, she thinks. The chair she sat in before is free, so that’s where Bernie goes. She’s generally a creature of habit, likes a routine. That’s why she did so well in the army.

Serena personally delivers Bernie’s order to her again, has Morven behind the register while she steps away, and Bernie wonders if this is something special Serena is doing just for her. Bernie sips at the coffee, it’s got some almond in it, and something else, and it’s nice. A bit fancier than what she’d choose for herself, a bit more complicated, but it’s what Serena likes, and that’s good enough for Bernie.

\- - -

Serena starts to expect Bernie every morning, usually ten or fifteen minutes after the place opens. She starts to take more of the opening shifts, letting Morven sleep in a bit longer. Says it’s for employee morale, but it’s really because she wants to be able to spend time getting to know Bernie Wolfe, feels drawn to the woman.

Bernie has her usual spot, alternates between black coffee and whatever coffee Serena feels like making for her that day. Always has a chocolate croissant with her order. It gets to a point where Serena starts one warming before Bernie arrives. It’s always a little quieter when Bernie comes in, sometimes she’s the only other person for twenty minutes, and Serena thinks she likes that. 

They talk, while Serena wipes tables and arranges the mugs behind the counter. Bernie tells her about her days in the army, about her work as a surgeon. Serena shares stories of when she was first starting out, about Edward, her former business partner who up and left one day, leaving her to cope. Bernie tells Serena about her injury, about the explosion, is embarrassed at Serena’s reaction, which is to come and sit by Bernie and tell her how heroic she is. Serena almost hugs Bernie, pulls her in tight, but resists, doesn’t think Bernie is the kind of person to like that sort of thing. 

Bernie talks about her daughter and her son and her husband and Serena often stops from working to really take in the words that Bernie is sharing, thinks Bernie probably doesn’t get to talk much, when she’s at home, thinks she doesn’t have anyone else to share this with. She’s happy to be that person for Bernie, happy enough to hear stories of someone else’s life. Bernie always goes silent when another customer comes in, doesn’t want to share her stories with anyone else, and sneaks out when Serena’s busy, never really says a proper goodbye.

There’s an easiness to the friendship, something Serena didn’t expect. Maybe it’s the comfort of the coffee shop, maybe it’s that there’s no pressure. Bernie just buys coffee, Serena just makes it, there’s no extra expectations attached. They have clearly defined roles, and that makes it simple. It’s nice, having someone her age around, Serena thinks, someone who has lived a life. She starts to think of Bernie as a part of her patchwork family, as reliable as Morven when it comes to her schedule, never missing a day without mentioning it beforehand. 

\- - - 

Bernie always comes home from the coffee shop feeling lighter, freer. She enjoys Serena’s company, enjoys her quick wit and her bright smile, and her willingness to listen. Though Serena has no children, she seems to understand the trials and tribulations of mothering well enough and gives Bernie sound advice in dealing with her taciturn daughter. 

Serena, too, shares stories of her life, of the hardship of running a business on her own and the loneliness she sometimes feels. Here, Bernie feels like she can share Serena’s burden, lighten her own load. For some strange reason, it feels as though only at this coffee shop can she truly be useful, pull her own weight. She thinks she’s useful to Serena. Hopes she is, anyway.

She goes to her physical therapy appointments, even the doctors there note her lifted spirits, say it will help her heal. They’re very big on positive outlooks, something Bernie has never quite bought into. She just says that she’s sure it doesn’t hurt and tries to mask the pain from the stretches. It’s the good kind of pain, the kind that is helping her body do what it needs to do again. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, that it doesn’t linger. She often ices her back when she gets home, spends an hour in front of the television, limp with the exhaustive work of recuperating. 

Marcus asks her, one evening, what she gets up to every morning, why she isn’t there when he leaves for work. She hasn’t said much about Serena’s, hasn’t told him about her new friend, wants to keep it for herself. She shrugs her shoulder, says she likes to go for a long walk - it isn’t a lie, exactly, it’s just that there’s a specific destination in her mind at the end of her walk, a destination she feels no need to tell Marcus about.

Bernie tells him about her physical therapy, says she’s on the mend. He says it’s a relief, that he’s looking forward to having a wife again. Her face colors at the insinuation, she hasn’t been interested in having sex with him, hasn’t felt the need. He mentions it, every once in a while, and she says she’s worried about her back, not a falsehood exactly, but her physical therapists, her chiropractor, haven’t said it’s against the rules of her recovery.

“I’m sorry my injury has been such an inconvenience to you,” she says bitterly and Marcus looks at her, surprise on his face, like he didn’t know he’d said anything that would be remotely categorized as upsetting. He doesn’t have anything to say back, though, just lets the comment sit between them for a bit.

“Thought about finding any work? I’m sure there’s locum positions available, either at St. James or at Holby City Hospital. You could get a job there.” His remark feels pointed as well, and Bernie’s hackles go up, her posture visibly tightening, her back protesting the movement. 

“I’m not ready yet, Marcus. I haven’t been cleared by doctors, I can’t walk more than a few steps without the aid of this infernal cane, and I would appreciate a modicum of sympathy for that fact!” She rarely raises her voice, only does so when she knows she’s in the right, when she has the high ground. 

“It just seems like since you’ve been back, all you do is lounge around most of the day, but can’t manage to do anything around the house except feel sorry for yourself.” There’s the crux of it, the true root of Marcus’s unhappiness. He wanted a wife when Bernie came back, a woman to do the cleaning, the cooking, make a home for him. He never wanted to be married to a Major, and he thinks this is now his chance to have the housewife he always longed for. 

“I do what I can, Marcus,” she says, her voice small, her eyes large. “I’m trying. For this family, for you. I’m trying.” She is, but all her efforts are compounded by her injury, by the fact that she doesn’t really know what to do, when she’s around her family all the time. Charlotte and Marcus have a routine and Bernie isn’t sure how she fits in, isn’t sure she knows how to make a space for herself. So she hasn’t butted in, hasn’t tried to make dinner, hasn’t honed in on their evening rituals. She’s a silent participant in this life that left her behind when she left it for the army. 

She sleeps alone in bed that night, assumes Marcus has taken the couch for himself. Even though she’s up early to go to Serena’s, he’s already left the house. She leaves a note for Charlotte, says to call if she needs anything, puts on her orthopedic shoes and starts the walk to the coffee shop.

\- - -

Serena smiles when she sees Bernie walk in, her slight limp, the stiffness in her back a familiar sight. She starts the coffee brewing with a flip of the switch, walks over to where Bernie has seated herself - not in her usual chair, but in one of the wooden ones, sturdier and upright. Serena thinks her back must be especially troubling today, that she needs the extra support.

“The usual black?” Bernie nods tightly, not looking up at Serena and it’s the silence that tells Serena something is wrong. Bernie is quiet, introverted, but she is not quiet. Now that she’s comfortable with Serena, she’s talkative, chatty, even. She has a sense of humor, biting and quick, and she gives and good as she gets. But this distant Bernie, this Bernie who won’t even look at Serena isn’t the kind of Bernie Serena is familiar with.

“Let’s sit in the back, there’s a quiet table. And we can talk.” The suggestion isn’t really a suggestion at all, and Bernie understands it as such, gets up and walks where Serena gestures, a table very much out of the way, usually occupied by a writer on a laptop for most of the afternoon, a place to get work done uninterrupted. 

Bernie sits heavily, arches slightly against the chair back, trying to stretch out her stiff and sore muscles, unused to the tension she’s been holding since last night. Morven comes into the shop, earlier than normal, and Bernie wonders if Serena texted her, wonders how far away Morven lives. Serena joins Bernie, then, two coffee mugs in her hands, thick pottery, perfect for wrapping one’s hands around. She has pastries on a plate, too, and Bernie knows she’s being enticed.

Serena sets the mugs down, pulls the empty chair so it’s next to Bernie’s, rather than across from it, holds her coffee in one hand and rests her other in what she hopes is a comforting gesture on Bernie’s knee. She feels the color rise to her cheeks at the touch, feels the heat through Bernie’s jeans, but doesn’t take her hand away. “What’s wrong?” she asks, never having been known to beat around the bush. 

Bernie shrugs, the same gesture she made towards Marcus last night, before it all went pear-shaped. But Serena squeezes her knee, ever so slightly, and it makes Bernie look at her, all sad eyes and turned-down mouth. “My husband and I fought last night,” she says, doesn’t know how to put it all into words, that she feels out of step with him, that she doesn’t know what she should be doing, that she can’t find it in herself to be the domestic goddess he wishes for.

“What about?” Serena sips her drink, her eyes never leaving Bernie’s, her hand still an anchor on Bernie’s leg.

Bernie gestures to the cane, to herself, to the coffee shop. “Everything?” she says, rather tremulously. “It’s hard, to be back. To be back and not be able to do everything I wish I could. And he doesn’t understand that.” Bernie is struggling to find the words, to soften the pain that she’s feeling emotionally, and Serena just watches her, eyes patient, mouth drawn. She’s learned to wait out Bernie, that eventually Bernie will say what needs to be said. But the silence stretches, and Bernie just sits there unhappily, Serena’s hand on her knee, her thumb rubbing gently back and forth. 

“Do you want to get dinner some time?” Bernie finally breaks the silence and Serena looks at her, eyes wide, her thumb pausing in its movement. “Spend some time together away from where you work?” She doesn’t know if this is too far, if this isn’t something they do, if it will ruin the friendship they have forged in this coffee shop.

“As long as you’re not using me as an excuse to get away from your family,” Serena says, but gentles her words with a smile and a squeeze to Bernie’s knee. Bernie twitches slightly, ticklish, and Serena’s grin widens. 

“It’s not an excuse, just a happy byproduct. And it’s not my family, it’s just Marcus.” Bernie thinks of Charlotte, of what leaving Marcus would mean for her. Her daughter who tries so hard to be everything her parents could dream of, who has just seemed to get a handle on having her mother around again. Bernie doesn’t want to do anything to break the tenuous bond they’re starting to re-form.

“Then yes. I’d like that.” Serena feels warm at the suggestion, a little flutter. It’s not a date, but it’s gratifying that Bernie is eager enough to spend time with her in a completely social venue. It feels like confirmation that Serena is what has kept Bernie coming back all these weeks, not how good her coffee is or how flaky the pastries. 

\- - - 

They have dinner, at a small Italian place, and Bernie learns about Serena’s love for wine, her ability to drink a fair amount and keep her poise, her talent for languages and near flawless pronunciation of the names of the dishes. “I always had an ear for them,” Serena says, “And I have the tongue of a mimic - I pick up accents like it’s nothing.” Bernie flushes slightly at Serena’s mention of her tongue, doesn’t know why that should be so.

“Charlotte’s coming with me tomorrow,” is what Bernie says, to regain her footing. “She has the day off school, asked if she could walk with me.” Though Bernie isn’t saying it, Serena can tell that she’s happy that her daughter wanted to do something with her, knows it’s something special that she’s bringing Charlotte to the coffee shop.

“I’ll look my very best,” Serena promises, feeling like she has to impress Charlotte, though doesn’t know why that should be so.

“You always look nice,” Bernie admonishes, the blush back on her cheeks and Serena smiles gratefully, ducks her head, drinks her wine. The air feels thick between them and neither quite knows why.

There’s still that heaviness between them when Bernie appears, with Charlotte in tow the next morning. Charlotte looks like her mother, so much like her. They have the same straw-colored hair, the same long nose. Where Bernie’s eyes are dark, Charlotte must have inherited her blue eyes from someone else. She’s tall, like her mother, but uncomfortable with her height, has slightly slouched posture. Serena rubs her hands nervously on the apron she always wears, watches Bernie take her usual chair, Charlotte settling in next to her, fussing a little, making sure her mother is fine, not in pain. It’s nice to see, that care and attention.

Bernie bats it away though, never one to dwell on her injury or be comfortable with extra coddling, even from her daughter. Serena walks up then, her face arranged in a bright, happy expression, and she rests a hand on Bernie’s shoulder as she faces Charlotte, does it without thinking. Doesn’t notice the color rise to Bernie’s cheeks. 

“It’s no mystery that you’re Charlotte. You look enough like her! Do you have the same taste in coffee? Hot and black and no frills?” She squeezes Bernie’s shoulder ever so slightly, a lifeline to the things they share, to the knowledge she has of Bernie’s tastes. Bernie looks up at her, eyes shining, affectionate, fond.

“Oh, no, not a coffee drinker at all, actually,” Charlotte says, and Serena makes a face of mock horror, earning a small chuckle from her seated audience. “Chai, if you have it? And Mum says you’ve got amazing pastry.” Serena looks down at Bernie, who smiles, shrugs, lifting her shoulder under Serena’s gentle touch. Serena can see the edge of Bernie’s scar from this angle, a harsh pink line against the pale skin of her neck. She almost reaches out to touch it, her finger twitching just a hair, but resists the urge. Charlotte clears her throat, a small noise, but it startles Serena from her reverie and she realizes she and Bernie have been looking at each other for longer than is probably acceptable. 

“I’ll get those started, then,” she says, and leaves the mother and daughter with a final squeeze to Bernie’s shoulder. She can see Charlotte watching her as she starts the milk heating, the coffee going. Then Bernie says something, gestures to the large windows, and Charlotte turns her attention back to her mother.

Serena likes seeing Bernie as a mother, likes hearing someone call her Mum. She sees that Bernie likes it too, underneath all her bluster of being strong and silent, a military woman through and through. Bernie’s eyes are happy as Charlotte tells her a story, her laugh that loud braying noise Serena has come to be familiar with, her hand covering her mouth as if to stopper the sound. 

She brings over the drinks, the pastries, sets them on the table. Even though there’s an empty chair, Serena perches herself on the arm of Bernie’s, says to herself that it’ll make it easier to pop up and help any customer that comes in. She can feel Bernie’s arm next to her thigh, can feel the warm heat of Bernie so close.

Charlotte is watching her again, an appraising look that Serena recalls from Bernie’s first day in the coffee shop. So like her mother. “How long have you been here?” she asks, not saying what she’s really thinking, not asking the question on the tip of her tongue. 

“Oh, long enough to be considered an ‘establishment,’” Serena says, putting the word in quotes. She’s been listed in little local magazines as the place to go for a cuppa, as the standard to which all other local coffee shops should be held. She takes the accolades with a grain of salt, as she never has much competition, and what is “The Best Coffee in Holby 2016” really worth, at the end of the day.

The bell at the door tinkles sweetly, and all three heads turn to look. Serena regretfully excuses herself, bustles behind the counter. She watches Bernie and Charlotte out of the corner of her eye, sees them talking animatedly again, is glad to see that there’s someone else Bernie talks to, no matter what the topic of discussion. And then the morning rush starts properly and Serena turns back to the task at hand, is joined by Fletch behind the counter, and doesn’t notice when the mother and daughter take their leave.

\- - - 

Charlotte wants to say goodbye to Serena, but Bernie tells her that she never does. “It’d interrupt her flow,” she says, not really being able to justify the words. She knows Serena would be happy to spare a moment to say a quick farewell, doesn’t know why she never does. Doesn’t want to be a bother, she supposes. So she leaves a small tip next to her mug, and Charlotte helps her up, and they leave the coffee shop.

“How long have you been coming to Serena’s?” Charlotte asks, once they’re back on the street. Bernie still has the cane, though she’s relying on it less. Charlotte stays close, almost hovering, her shoulder bumping into Bernie’s often, as though she’s afraid that if she gives Bernie too much space, she might stumble.

“Oh, since just after I got out of the hospital, I think. My physical therapist told me to practice my walking, and so I walked. And ended up there.” She shrugs, her most common gesture, a habit her daughter has picked up as well. “What did you think of it?” She’s nervous, to hear Charlotte’s appraisal, wants Charlotte to like this tiny little haven she’s found.

“Oh, it’s lovely, Mum. And Serena seems really nice. I can see why you like it there.” Charlotte twines her arm through Bernie’s, holds them close. Bernie lets herself smile.

“Serena is amazing, truly. It’s been good to have her. Someone my own age.” Bernie doesn’t quite know how to verbalize what Serena is to her, doesn’t know how to explain to her daughter about this kind of friendship, found past her prime. The only other friend of Bernie’s her family had ever met was Alex, but her friendship with Alex was nothing like what she has with Serena. There’s more intimacy, more companionship. With Alex, it was all escapism and exercising, and doing surgery together. It was different.

“Is there...is there something going on between you two?” Bernie’s face turns bright red at the question, she’s flustered, doesn’t know why Charlotte should ask such a thing. She looks at her daughter, the question written on her face. “Just. Just the way you looked at each other. Like there was no one else around. And her hand on your shoulder. And then she just sat on your chair. That’s something you used to do with Dad. That’s all.” Charlotte is clearly feeling embarrassed too, won’t look at her mother. 

“We’re just friends. I think she might be my best friend,” Bernie says, surprised to find that it’s true. The thought of her friendship with Serena gives her a flutter in her heart, a warmth that starts in the pit of her stomach, a feeling of pleasure. How lucky is she that she met Serena Campbell.

“You’ve that look in your eye again, Mum. Like when you were looking at her earlier.” Charlotte’s face is red now, too, and Bernie clears her throat. Feels at a loss for words. 

“Just friends,” she says again, after a bit, bumps Charlotte’s shoulder ever so slightly, a small smile on her face, to get them to move past this, and they continue the walk home.

\- - -

Because Bernie is fighting with Marcus, and because her back is especially sore today, her spine in slight spasm, she resorts to asking Serena to bring her to her physical therapy appointment. She’s clearly uncomfortable with asking for help, the set of her mouth stern and unmoving. Serena makes sure the cafe is covered, Jason and Fletch manning the shop, drives to Bernie’s house to pick her up in the afternoon.

Bernie’s house is nice, reasonable, nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that screams “Berenice Wolfe lives here.” Serena once asked where her name came from and Bernie simply said that her father had been a fan of opera. Serena had listened to the score online that night, liking the minuet in particular. Bernie opens the door before Serena can even get out of the car, was clearly watching through the window. She walks slowly to the car, her stiffness evident, her reliance on the cane more pronounced than usual. Serena gets out, opens the door on Bernie’s side, tries to help her into the lower seat but Bernie pulls away with a brusque, “I’m fine.” 

Serena wants to tell her that it’s all right to need help, but doesn’t think that’s the sort of adage Bernie wants to hear. So she gets back into the driver’s seat, buckles her belt and lets Bernie direct her towards the hospital. Their conversation is stilted, Serena turns the radio on to help mask the heavy silences. 

“Shall I come in or…” Serena trails off, unsure of the protocol here. She won’t wait in the car like a child, doesn’t have anywhere to spend the half hour or so that the appointment will take. She taps a finger on the steering wheel and Bernie sighs.

“Might as well come up, then,” she says with an air of resignation and Serena turns off the car with a flick of the wrist, darts around to help Bernie out before she can resist. 

The physical therapist invites Serena into the stretching area, says it’s good for Bernie to have someone to hold her accountable for the exercises, to know how to do them too. Serena’s eyes are wide, and she looks at Bernie, a little frightened, because she doesn’t want to overstep whatever this is between them. But Bernie’s mouth is set tightly and she gives a short nod, because how can she say no, not when the therapist is looking between them like that. 

Serena doesn’t know if this is some violation of NHS policy as she watches the physical therapist mold Bernie’s body into different shapes, stretching the muscles of her back, going easier than normal because of the pain in her spine. Bernie is dressed in soft clothes, yoga pants and a baggy shirt, better for moving in. And then the physical therapist helps Bernie stand, says it’s time to walk, and Bernie’s face is a blank mask at that. Serena doesn’t know what she’s about to witness, but knows that Bernie doesn’t want her there for it.

Walking without the assistance of a cane is hard. Bernie’s posture is stooped, her steps hesitant. She almost falls and Serena is half out of her chair before she can stop herself. Sits back down, folds her hands meekly in her lap and looks at the opposite wall. But she saw the exertion on Bernie’s face, the crease in her brow, how hard Bernie is working to get herself back to the person she was before the explosion.

Bernie is still quiet and surly as they walk back down to the car, though she seems a little less in pain. “Is there anything that helps after? Hot water bottle? Ice pack? I’m not licensed, but I’ve been told I give a good massage, if you need a bit of a rub,” Serena says, her hostess instincts coming out full bore. She’s a caregiver, through and through, couldn’t stop it if she tried.

“I don’t need anything,” Bernie says, her tone clipped and short. Serena lets the rest of the drive go by in silence, she’s not one to try and force things, not when it’s this tense and uncomfortable. 

“Sure I can’t get you anything?” Serena asks again, as she pulls in front of Bernie’s house, but Bernie just shakes her head. 

“I don’t need anything,” she repeats. “Least of all pity.” And slams the car door behind her.

\- - -

Bernie doesn’t come to the coffee shop the next day. Or the day after that. Serena practically wears a hole in the floor pacing back and forth until the morning rush starts. She is distracted, makes a drink three times before finally getting it right. She doesn’t think she’s at a point where she can call Bernie to see if she’s all right, doesn’t want to intrude either. Doesn’t think it’s appropriate to drive to her house again, not when it’s clear that Bernie wants space. 

So she lets Bernie disappear, tries to quell any feelings of loss or wistfulness. She goes for a week without seeing Bernie, tells herself it’s fine, that friends come and go. That customers come and go. She snaps at Fletch for forgetting to place a supply order instead of easily remedying the solution by calling their supplier. She makes Morven’s eyes water when she berates her for overfilling on coffee and underfilling on foam. Jason steers clear of her entirely and finds a reason to be on the other side of the shop any time Serena is around. 

Her bad mood extends even to the customers, the morning crowd thinning a bit, customers less prone to talking with her as they did even the week prior. She is short with everyone, even herself, doesn’t have any kind of excuse at all.

“Wish Bernie’d come back,” she overhears Fletch murmur to Morven one morning and stops herself from sneering back some snide remark she knows she’d regret moments later. She just wishes it wasn’t as obvious to everyone what was the root of her bad mood. 

She really does try to curtail her bad mood, after that. She tries to get over missing Bernie Wolfe, tries to put her in a category of things she doesn’t care about as much, but she knows that’s a lie. Why, really, should a friendship matter this much. Serena, in her efforts to work through it all, tries to imagine Bernie’s perspective, proud, strong, capable, and forced to ask for help when standing from a car. Having her friend and confidante watch as she stumbled around a small room, difficulty walking even a few steps unaided. While Serena doesn’t think anything of it all, she thinks Bernie must assign a great weight to her independence, and to be so thoroughly gelded in front of someone to whom she is so close must be heart-wrenching.

With this perspective in mind, she just misses Bernie, but isn’t angry about it. She understands, as best she can.

Which is why, a week later, she is surprised to see Bernie stop in, during the afternoon lull. Jason is wiping tables, still giving Serena wide perimeter, and Serena is stacking mugs in the drainer behind the counter. She pauses in her movements when she sees Bernie, tall, beautiful Bernie, those dark eyes flashing at the sight of Serena. 

“I’m so-” Bernie starts and Serena holds up a hand, a finger, almost touching Bernie’s lips to stop her words. She can feel the gentle exhalation of breath even as she sees Bernie’s chest contract. 

“Water under the bridge. Unless you’d like me to apol-” Bernie waves her hands for Serena to stop, her fingers long, her palms large, and Serena thinks she’s never really noticed them before. “So we’re square. Sit down, and I’ll make you a cup of coffee.” Bernie does so, her walk still slow and steady, but it’s better than Serena can remember ever having seen it before. 

When she’s settled on the chair next to Bernie, Jason stationed behind the counter, seemingly relieved at the appearance of Bernie (Serena thinks she saw him send off text messages to Morven and Fletch announcing the news), Bernie turns to Serena, hands clasped around the mug, heating her fingers against the warm ceramic. “I’ve got some news,” she says, and the way she says it fills Serena with trepidation. “I’ve been offered a secondment, a position at a hospital in Kiev, to help with their trauma facilities. Since I have a fair amount of experience in that arena. And I’d be of some use, even if I’m not quite up to showing off surgical technique yet.” She sets the mug down, reaches for it again, is antsy and fidgety. Serena sits, her posture as stiff as Bernie’s is on a bad day, poleaxed. Bernie reaches out, almost touches Serena’s arm, then pulls back. “It’s for the best, I think? Marcus and I, we need space, time to sort this all out. I need to be doing something.” Serena almost asks what Charlotte wants, but doesn’t want to use a woman’s daughter against her, won’t play that chip. 

“Oh,” is all she says, and then makes an excuse, something, has to get up, is overcome with the feeling that she needs to scream into a pillow or punch a wall, because she was so happy to see Bernie moments ago, and now it’s all being taken from her. Bernie watches her leave, Serena can feel her eyes tracking her as she walks towards Jason, says that she needs a few moments to herself and goes upstairs, into her flat. 

\- - -

It’s the middle of the night when Bernie’s phone buzzes. She’s sleeping in Cameron’s room, giving Marcus the master bedroom to himself. Cameron’s mattress is comfortable enough, well-worn. She bunches a pillow at the base of her spine, puts another under knees, all tactics learned to make her back rest easier.

She looks at her phone, it’s a text from Serena, and all it says is, “I don’t want you to go.” Bernie closes her eyes, puts a hand to her forehead, wonders at how she’s gotten herself into this, how those words from Serena feel like enough to make her reconsider taking this appointment. She swipes into her messages, pauses over the keyboard, then decides to just call Serena instead, doesn’t have to wait long before Serena picks up.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” she says instead of hello, and Bernie laughs softly, says she can’t sleep either. “I just. Even if you go, I didn’t want you to leave without saying that.” She sounds a little helpless, her voice sad, and Bernie almost can’t bear it. She doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what words she has to make any of it okay. “I understand if you don’t feel quite at home yet, even though it’s been a while. But I don’t think you should leave because of that.” 

Bernie is still silent, because it’s true that she still feels out of place in this world, it’s true that she hasn’t quite found her footing (and there’s no pun meant there). And then Serena says, “Don’t mistake your unhappiness with Marcus for unhappiness with life.” Bernie rolls onto her side, feels her eyes get a bit wet, the way they do when someone drops an unexpected insight into her lap, overwhelmed with the fact that someone should care about her enough to think about her life critically.

“Okay,” she says after a time, her voice quiet, though it feels loud in the empty bedroom, in the silent house. “Okay.” And she ends the call.

\- - - 

Serena is in a snit again, works the closing shift instead of the opening one because she didn’t sleep at all, not after she got off the phone with the one and only, singularly taciturn Bernie Wolfe. She’s wiping down tables and turning up chairs so she can sweep, emptying out cups into the drain behind the counter. It’s almost time to lock the door when she looks up and sees Bernie loitering outside, hands jammed in her pockets, pacing back and forth, the cane her ever-present third leg. But it looks as if she’s barely using it, merely a prop now. 

Bernie bends down, squints into the window, Serena thinks she’s trying to see that it’s empty. She turns her back to the window, to Bernie. Let her sit out there for a bit, let her stew, she how she likes it. She’s organizing the space in front of the register, the straws and lids and sleeves when she hears the door open, hears the sound of the sign on the door being flipped around, the noise of the laminated sheet scraping against the glass. And then she feels Bernie come near, turns around just in time to be kissed by Berenice Wolfe. 

Bernie’s mouth is strong, hot, insistent and Serena can find no reason to object, her hands gripping at Bernie’s elbows. Bernie is backing her into the counter, puts her hands into Serena’s hair, runs her fingers through the short length of it, over and over, like she’s been thinking about it for ages. And Serena can’t believe she’s never thought of this before because it all seems so right, so good. “If my back were well enough,” Bernie murmurs between kisses, short, sweet pecks to Serena’s lips, “I’d have lifted you onto this counter.” She noses into Serena’s hairline, breathes in the smell of her. Serena doesn’t mind, finds herself kissing the soft skin of Bernie’s cheek, as it’s just right there, her chin, her neck, thinks she can’t remember a time she’s enjoyed kissing more. 

“I’m not going to Kiev,” Bernie says, her forehead tilted against Serena’s, her dark eyes meeting Serena’s, and she beams, knows her whole face is alight with her joy, can feel it practically emanating from her pores, enveloping Bernie. And Bernie smiles then, too, the happiest Serena thinks she’s ever seen her. And she brings their mouths together again, holds her close, because she knows this won’t be the last time.

\- - -

Bernie sits Marcus down in their kitchen, at the table they bought together when they first moved in twenty-five years ago. She recognizes every notch, every scratch, every stain, can see Cameron banging his head against the table when he was just learning to walk, can see the fort Charlotte built, when she wanted to read her books in peace. She sees the life she built with Marcus in this table, in this kitchen, but she knows that it’s a different life she needs now.

“You just need more time to heal,” Marcus says, almost pleading. If it weren’t the opposite of what he’d told her before, that she needed to heal faster, Bernie might be more affected by it. “When you get back to work, we’ll all get back to normal.”

“I don’t think so, Marcus,” Bernie says, her hands folded tightly in front of her. 

“I don’t mind it, you not working. When I said that, I was angry, but I’m not now. You’re just a bit antsy, that’s all.” He sounds so young, so foolish, so wrong. Bernie looks at him, sees the man she married, doesn’t see a man she’s in love with. 

“It’s over. I don’t - I don’t think I love you anymore,” she says, doesn’t know how to soften those words, doesn’t think subtlety is the watchword here. Marcus looks at her with wide eyes, his mouth open, and then she sees his gaze harden, knows he’s about to say something cruel, so she stands, pushes back the chair from the table with a groan and turns on her heel before he can wound her with his words.

She catches Charlotte in the hall, just two steps from the kitchen, clearly eavesdropping. “Let’s go for a drive,” she says, because she doesn’t think she’s up for a walk, not just now, and doesn’t want Charlotte leaving the house without some words from one of her parents. Charlotte nods, follows Bernie dutifully out to the car, gets in the passenger’s side and watches her mother slowly sink into the seat. 

“I think your dad and I will be getting a divorce,” she says, and Charlotte rolls her eyes, like it’s obvious, like she’s not surprised, like she might not even be upset.

“You’ve slept in separate rooms for almost a month now,” Charlotte says. It’s true. They haven’t been discreet in their disagreements, but they haven’t been open about it either. It’s been a month of tiptoeing around what’s in front of them all, not putting anything out into the open. 

“There’s….there’s someone else.” Charlotte rolls her eyes at this too, and Bernie wishes she could go back to the days when Charlotte hung on her every word, thought Bernie hung the moon in the sky.

“It’s Serena, Mum, I know,” she says, because it’s true. She did know, she knew before Bernie did, saw it all those weeks ago when Serena sat on the armrest of Bernie’s chair and put her hand on her shoulder, didn’t even have to see all the moments that came before, all the moments that happened in between.

“This isn’t going how I thought it would,” Bernie says lamely, driving aimlessly down dark streets, the only light from streetlamps and her headlights. Charlotte laughs at that, almost the same noise her mother makes, a little bit tamer. 

“I’m leaving for university soon, you haven’t been happy, I liked Serena when I met her. Dad will sort himself out. It’ll be fine, Mum.” Charlotte says ‘mum’ more now than she ever has, and said once, shyly, that it’s because she never got to say it much while Bernie was stationed out of the country. Bernie likes it, likes being Charlotte’s mum, likes filling this role she never thought she would. 

“It’ll be fine,” Bernie agrees, and turns to drive them home, stopping for ice cream on the way.

\- - -

Serena is feeling antsy again, hasn’t heard from Bernie for almost two days. She tries to keep the fact that she’s on edge all the time a secret, tries not to snap at anyone, smiles big false smiles at everyone, feeling slightly manic about it all. But all she can think of is the feeling of Bernie’s soft lips against hers, those long fingers in her hair, the rough palms smoothing against her face, her neck. The way her body felt against Serena’s. It’s hard to work at the counter, where she can so plainly picture herself pinned against Bernie, holding onto her like some kind of liferaft. She’s struck with the scene at odd moments through the days, sucks in a breath at the sensation of it, can’t remember ever wanting to kiss someone this much in her entire life.

And, finally, as she’s leaving for the day, her phone vibrates with a text from Bernie, asking if they can meet up somewhere. Serena picks the place they went to before, when they had dinner together. She gets a table, small, in a dark corner, waits for Bernie, drumming her fingers on the table, checking her phone every few seconds, though she knows it’ll light up whenever Bernie sends a missive. 

She sees Bernie, her blonde hair unmistakeable. She thinks maybe Bernie’s had a trim, it seems shorter, more of her long neck visible, thinks of licking a trail down the vein she can see there. Gulps slightly, wishes she’d thought to order wine, to have it waiting. Bernie looks shy when she gets to the table, but Serena won’t stand for that, gets up and kisses Bernie’s cheek, pulls her down so they’re sitting on the same side of the table, close as they can be. There are other couples seated similarly around the restaurant, but Serena feels daring for sitting like this with Bernie.

The waiter comes and they order wine, appetizers, and are left in peace. Bernie’s hand is next to Serena’s on the table, her pinky just reaching out to graze Serena’s, and Serena flushes with the touch, feels alive with it. Bernie slides her finger atop Serena’s, lets it rest there, and Serena can hardly contain the want she feels in the pit of her stomach, thinks that it’s ridiculous to feel this much from so little.

“I’m going to divorce Marcus,” Bernie says, finally, when she’s had her fill of teasing Serena, of staring at Serena, lit in candlelight. Serena feels a bit silly that she hadn’t even given Marcus a second thought in all of this, that she’d only thought of what it would be like to slide between the sheets of her bed with Bernie next to her, naked skin glistening with perspiration, eyes dark with need. She pulls her hand away, folds her hands into her lap. 

“I don’t want to be a part of some sort of adulterous love affair,” she says, thinks it sounds rather prim in a way she doesn’t mean to be. She’s never wanted to be the other woman, never wanted to come between two people before. 

“You aren’t,” Bernie says, a hand on Serena’s arm, her gaze earnest. “It was over before I even met you, you just helped me see what was already there, and obvious to everyone. Including, it seems, my daughter.” She squeezes Serena’s arm, rubs her thumb against the thin material of the blouse Serena put on knowing Bernie would like the way she looked in it. 

“Charlotte knows?” Serena asks, her voice a little tremulous, because if Charlotte knows, then it’s real. 

“Charlotte knew before I did, Serena. Practically pulled a muscle rolling her eyes when I told her.” Serena laughs at that, a soft chuckle, and allows herself to relax a bit. “It’s just paperwork left between us, I swear. And that’ll be sorted soon enough.” Bernie sounds so sure, so confident that she’s doing the right thing that Serena lets herself believe it. Lets herself lean into Bernie, bump their shoulders together. Bernie nuzzles Serena’s face, tilts it just so, and kisses her, lightly, sweetly, on the lips. And Serena smiles.

The food comes, the wine comes too, and Serena is caught up in the haze of newfound love, because that’s what it is, she thinks, that’s what she’s found here, with Bernie. She doesn’t know what she’s eating, doesn’t care, only knows the wine is good, and it is sweet on Bernie’s tongue. She’s glad their corner is dark, that no one saw Bernie’s hand cup Serena’s breast, quickly, carefully, through the fabric of the shirt, that no one can see how Serena’s right foot is without a shoe and making its way up Bernie’s thigh, pushing aside her trousers with her toes. She thinks this is what she wants, forever and ever, to be with Bernie Wolfe, lets the thought fill her with no uncertain joy.

\- - - 

It’s mid-morning when Serena sees Charlotte Dunn walk into her coffee shop, alone. Without her mother. She’s worried at first, that something may have happened, and Charlotte’s here to be the bearer of bad news, but Charlotte smiles when she sees Serena, immediately allaying any fears. “Can I sit anywhere?” she asks, in a voice like Bernie’s, without the gravel of age. Serena nods, racks her brain to remember what Charlotte wanted when she came in the first time, then sets about making a chai for the young woman.

“On the house,” Serena says when she sets it in front of Charlotte, and Charlotte smiles, a beaming smile, teeth showing, an expression that Serena has never seen on Bernie’s face, no matter how happy she’s been. She wonders if Bernie was like Charlotte as a child, long wavy blonde hair, more carefree, less bottled up with ideas of how she has to be.

“You’ve talked to my mum then,” she says, not really a question, and Serena decides to sit down, that this won’t be a quick chat. It’s quiet enough, customers on laptops, just the low tones of classical music playing from the coffee shop speakers. 

“So did you, it seems,” Serena answers, doesn’t know how candid they’re going to be with each other, is trying to let Charlotte take the lead.

“I think it’s brave, what you’re doing. What you’re both doing.” Charlotte is studiously not looking at Serena, and Serena wonders if she’s even thought about what she was going to say when she got here, or if she just decided to fly by the seat of her pants and visit her mother’s new girlfriend. She doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t feel like thanking her is quite right.

So she settles for a Bernie standby and shrugs her shoulders. “It doesn’t feel like anything, really. It just feels like we lucked into finding each other and that was that.” All Serena can do is be honest. She hasn’t had some bolt out of the blue realization, she simply knows that Bernie is what she wants, doesn’t know if that makes it more or less complicated.

“I can see why she likes you,” Charlotte says, smiles. Serena is gracious enough to blush at this, is glad at least to have the approval of Bernie’s daughter, knows that’s important. “I have to get home,” she says, looks down at her mug, still mostly full. 

“I’ll get you a to-go cup,” Serena says, and does just that, efficiently pouring the warm drink into the waiting cup, slides a cardboard sleeve up the side and pops a lid on, all in a matter of moments. “Practice,” she says in response to Charlotte’s open mouth, clearly impressed by the alacrity at which Serena accomplished the task. 

And then Charlotte leans in, gives Serena an awkward half-hug, pats at her shoulder, and Serena can feel the briefest of smiles against her cheek before Charlotte pulls away and leaves, the bell on the door jangling her departure.

\- - -

Bernie and Marcus meet with lawyers, it’s all civil, reasonable. It goes better than Bernie imagined it would, thought Marcus might put up more of a fight, cause more of a stink. But he is willing to split things, to sell Bernie his half of the house if she wants it. And they take the papers home, because they drove to the law offices together, Bernie sits with them, at the same kitchen table where she told Marcus it was over. And then she signs her name, carefully, as neatly as she can, though she’s always had the slight scrawl of a doctor. 

She takes a picture of them, sends it to Serena. Adds that she doesn’t exactly feel like celebrating, but wouldn’t mind spending time with Serena, if she’s available. It doesn’t take but a minute for Serena to text back that she’s free, that Bernie should come over whenever she likes. Bernie knows by now that Serena lives above the coffee shop, drives herself there because she wants to be with Serena as quickly as possible, wants the comfort of her friend, whatever else Serena may be to her.

She taps on the buzzer that’s at the doorway to the stairs leading up the apartment, a tentative quick buzz, wonders if Serena even heard it, is about to press the button again, but then she hears the click of the lock and lets herself in. Serena’s waiting at the top of the stairs, a smile on her face, all bright and full of love and Bernie’s heart clenches at the sight, the light from inside Serena’s flat bathing her in a glow. Serena kisses her cheek, rests her face against Bernie’s for a moment, lets them bask in it together, and then Bernie’s arms go around Serena, pulls her into a deep, bone-crushing hug. “I know I did the right thing,” she says into Serena’s ear, her breath tickling strands of Serena’s short hair. “It’s still hard to end a twenty-five year chapter of my life.” Serena just pats Bernie’s back, breathes in the smell of her, holds her close. And when she’s ready, leads her into the apartment. Serena freezes as they cross the threshold, turns to look at Bernie, her mouth open slightly, her eyes wide and excited. 

“What?” Bernie asks, a little suspiciously.

“Your cane - it’s not here. You walked up a whole flight of stairs with no cane!” Bernie ducks her head sheepishly, toes her foot against the floor, draws an arc in front of her.

“I forgot to tell you, I got the green light from my physical therapist. I’m good as new, she says.” Bernie stuffs her hands in her pockets, looks at Serena, sees nothing but happiness shining out of those expressive eyes. 

“A big day,” Serena says. “Calls for a bottle of wine I think. Make yourself comfortable.” She gestures to the large couch in the middle of the room, just as cozy and warm as the coffee shop she’s created below. Hominess is something she’s made of, Bernie thinks, that the coffee shop would never be what it is without Serena at the helm. She feels grateful to be let into this world, allowed to be a part of Serena’s life.

They drink the bottle of wine. And they drink another. They are giggly and tired and happy and in love with the feeling of being together. They end up facing each other on the couch, their feet meeting in the middle, their legs tangled. Bernie has a pillow clutched to her chest, her cheeks rosy from the wine, and she feels a giddiness she can’t quite remember feeling before. She toes her socks off, lets her bare feet slide up Serena’s leg, as far as she can reach, to the underside of Serena’s thigh. 

Serena looks pleased at the contact, shifts slightly, and her eyes start to drift shut. Bernie thinks she should say something, should encourage Serena to take herself to bed, but finds herself falling asleep, her head flopping to the side before she can form any words whatsoever.

\- - - 

Serena’s alarm goes off, too early. She squints at the light coming in from her windows, the shades pulled back, letting the morning sun in, loud and bright. She has a headache, she is stiff, she isn’t as young as she once was. She moved into the fetal position in the night, a ball of limbs, and it is with no small amount of effort that she stretches out her legs, bumping into Bernie’s feet, jostling her awake too.

“We’re old,” Bernie says, eyes still closed, and Serena laughs at that, sits up, and grabs at Bernie’s ankle, pulls on it lightly. 

“Speak for yourself,” she says, but leans forward, far forward, presses herself almost completely horizontal against Bernie, and kisses her on the lips. “I’m going to shower, you can get yourself coffee, breakfast, whatever you want.” She saunters off to do just that, turning the water hot as she can take it, steam escaping from behind the curtain from almost the moment the spray leaves the faucet.

Bernie takes a moment to rouse herself, likes the sound of Serena going about her morning routine from behind the closed bathroom door. She runs a hand through her hair, a tangled bird's nest if ever there was one, knows the doctor who cleared her spine would be appalled at the way in which she spent the night, but finds herself not to be as stiff as she would have supposed. She stands, makes her way down the second staircase that leads into the coffee shop, thinks she can scrounge up some of yesterday’s croissants, might even be able to figure out how to make herself a cup of coffee. It’s not until her feet hit the bottom step and she’s in almost full view of the shop floor that she realizes it’s open for business and in the middle of the morning rush. And she’s in rumpled clothes and bare feet. She gives a small half-wave, her face bright red and burning, catches a sight of Fletch’s open-mouthed dismay, and beats a path back upstairs, almost slams the door behind her. Serena comes out of the bathroom at the sound, toweling her hair dry, and even the sight of that doesn’t calm Bernie’s heart.

“I just - I just gave your customers a bit of an insight into your personal life,” she says. “I didn’t think Serena’s would be open without Serena.” She feels a little lost, a little out of her depth. “I just didn’t think.” If she had, she would have remembered the mornings when Morven had opened, telling Bernie what time Serena would be arriving, or the times that Serena had said Fletch would be opening, if Bernie wanted to come by the coffee shop later in the day instead. But Bernie didn’t think of any of those things, just thought about her thirst for coffee and flaky pastries, and now doesn’t know what to do.

“At least you didn’t go down in my bathrobe,” Serena says, laughing, kisses the bewilderment from Bernie’s face.

The kiss turns into more kisses, open-mouthed, wet, and it becomes very apparent to Bernie that Serena is wearing just a towel. She tries to feel brave, tries to feel like she isn’t a scared teenager, having sex for the first time, but this is new and different, and she might have made herself come from working her fingers, but making Serena come is another kettle of fish all together, and it gives Bernie pause.

But Serena doesn’t seem to have the mindset to give Bernie space, keeps kissing her, moves to kiss her neck, and Bernie’s head tilts automatically to give her more room. Maybe she doesn’t need to take a pause at all, she thinks. Maybe she should just follow Serena’s lead. Serena backs them towards the bedroom Bernie has yet to see, topples them onto the bed, mindful of Bernie’s newly healed back, holds her close. Her towel is barely hanging on at this point, and Bernie thinks it’s only fair that she try to catch up to Serena’s state of undress, pulls the shirt off over her head, fiddles with the button of her jeans, starts to slide them down her hips. 

Serena’s eyes are dark as she watches Bernie do all of this with more fluidity than she thought she possessed. Bernie’s clothes are in a pile on the floor, Serena’s towel joins them, and they surge together on the bed, the duvet soft and smooth against Bernie’s bare back. Serena is astride her, one leg on either side of Bernie’s thighs, her skin so pale and soft. She rakes her hands down Bernie’s chest, her stomach, her thumbs circling her nipples in tandem, stiffening them to little peaks. Bernie arches into Serena’s touch, bringing them into closer contact, rubbing her hips into Serena’s, rutting up slightly, desperate for more friction, more feeling, more something. Serena seems to feel it too, lets one hand leave Bernie’s breast, slide in between their legs, slide in between Bernie’s thighs, slide into Bernie herself, a finger at first, slowly, almost tentative, as if to make sure Bernie likes it before continuing.

Bernie moans, softly, holding back the noise, mindful of the people she knows are below her in the shop, and Serena slides another finger in, lets her thumb dance and flick against Bernie’s clit, and Bernie turns her face into the pillow, bites her lip, feels wanton. She’s moving with the rhythm Serena’s set, gyrating slightly, finding a pace that works for her. Thinks that there’s maybe nothing that won’t work, not with this woman, thinks Serena is the secret ingredient to enjoying sex that she’s been missing all these years.

She is wet, so wet, and she can smell the musk coming from her, and can’t stop moving, can’t stop pushing for more pressure from Serena, who leans down, continuing her movements with her fingers, kisses Bernie, slides her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, engages in a focused and attentive assault there, her tongue mimicking the rhythm of her fingers and it’s all so much, and Bernie is so heady with desire and want and pleasure that she can’t think for it all, comes with a suddenness that is alarming, cries out into Serena’s mouth, almost bites her tongue. But Serena pulls back quickly enough, laughs at the look on Bernie’s face, pulls her hand out from between them, and, to Bernie’s dismay, and arousal, begins to clean her hand, licking each finger, her tongue sliding along each digit and Bernie feels the wetness pooling again, squirms at the sight of it.

“You got me dirty,” Serena says, quite primly, for all that she’s sitting atop Bernie, naked as the day she was born, practically sucking her fingers into her mouth. 

“You just showered,” Bernie points out, and Serena shrugs, a habit, Bernie thinks, she’s picked up on. “Might as well come in with me? Conserve water?” It’s a tired line, hackneyed and old, but it gets a laugh out of Serena, her breasts bouncing as she does. She stands, lets Bernie up, and Bernie practically rolls out of bed, barely straightens before she gets to the bathroom, and Serena follows, turns the water on, the spray hitting Bernie’s bare skin, making it slick and smooth. Bernie pulls Serena to her, kisses her beneath the water, tastes herself on Serena’s tongue and clutches Serena all the closer. “Thank you,” she says, when she’s had her fill of Serena, for the moment - because she doesn’t think she’ll ever truly have her fill of Serena. “Thank you.”

\- - -

It all feels too soon to have Bernie move into Serena’s flat, they both agree, so Bernie gets her own place - she and Marcus sell the house together, split up the possessions they want and give away the rest. Bernie keeps the kitchen table. Charlotte doesn’t mind any of it, reminds them all she’s moving soon enough, and as long as one of them has a spare room for her to come home to every once in a while, she doesn’t mind. 

Charlotte always comes to Serena’s when she’s in town, says it’s as much about seeing her mother, who seems to be a regular fixture, as it is about the chai, which is particularly good.

She and Bernie sit together at one of the small round tables, their heads almost touching, two blonde, tousled heads, working on the daily crossword, Charlotte filling in the answers because she says Bernie’s handwriting is too sloppy. Serena offers help when she passes by, refills their emptied cups, gives Bernie’s shoulder a squeeze, a gentle caress to her back, a long lingering look that lasts until Charlotte clears her throat and reminds them that they’re working on 23-down.

“Opera based on the life of Cleopatra. Eight letters.”

Serena smiles. “That’s an easy one. Berenice.”

 


	11. 'cause you're the spark that won't go out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ellychandlers asked for: Serena has an embarrassing secret that she doesn't want Bernie to know about..._
> 
>  
> 
> what if....what if it was the DUMBEST SECRET and i wrote that fic. anyway. enjoy this short bit of fluffy fluff. they just love each other, who am i to argue. i wrote some of this while drinking wine straight from the bottle because i am the classiest of ladies! you could play a game and guess which section that was! (please don't)

Bernie Wolfe has more - there’s no other word for it -  _ stuff  _ than Serena would have anticipated. When she volunteered to help her go through her things in preparation for Bernie’s impending move into Serena’s home, Serena was sure it would be a simple matter of just sorting through a few very plain black tops and perhaps a box of knick-knacks. 

Instead, she’s confronted with a small storage unit that is chock-a-block full of boxes and bags and more than she expected. “What is all this?” she asks, and Bernie just has her hands stuffed in her pockets, her whole posture tense and self-conscious and Serena wants to soften her tone, make Bernie feel all right about this, but she’s feeling overwhelmed at the task ahead of them instead. “Right, let’s just start left to right and see how we go.”

It turns out that when Marcus wanted to sell the house, he was willing to let everything go, donate everything to the charity shop and move on to his new life. It was Bernie who rescued the artwork that Cam and Charlotte made in primary school, the strip of wallpaper that had heights marked on it every time she came home on leave, just to see how much her children had grown. The sentimentality of it all sits heavy in Serena’s chest - Bernie is so quiet about her life before Holby, but it’s clearly something she treasures deeply.

There are kitchen tchotchkes, some whose uses elude Serena, and Bernie shrugs when asked what they are. “My mum was a cook,” she says, “Loved it, had new gourmet meals on the table every night. I didn’t feel like getting rid of them.” So that box gets moved to the pile of things to keep, growing larger by the minute. 

“Did you inherit any of that cleverness in the kitchen?” Serena asks, though she knows the answer is no. Bernie takes after her father in every way, she’s said, quiet and subdued, happier to tinker around out of doors rather than inside. 

“I can make a curry, when pressed. And my sandwiches have served me quite well, as you can see.” Bernie is relaxing, more comfortable with Serena poking through her life than she was at the outset. Serena tries not to prod too much, knows she and Bernie are very different when it comes to sharing, knows that Bernie is sacrificing a lot to let Serena be a part of this process. 

There’s minimal furniture in this small unit, and for that Serena is grateful. She keeps a tidy, ordered house, and doesn’t quite want to make room for some old, most likely hideous chair that has enormous nostalgic value. She does want Bernie to feel at home, to feel able to make the space hers, but Serena has nice furniture, and it all matches, and she doesn’t want to disrupt it, doesn’t think Jason would appreciate that either.

In the end, quite a few of the boxes get loaded into the back of Serena’s car, filling the boot, the backseat stacked as well. It’s letters her children wrote her when she was stationed in Afghanistan, it’s photos of Bernie receiving military honors, wearing her dress uniform and pride radiating from every pore of her body, it’s copies of medical texts with notes scrawled in the margins. It’s all the things that have made Bernie who she is today, and she can hardly throw those out. Serena isn’t anywhere near cold-hearted enough to make her part with them, just makes a small comment about finding room for it all, but says it brightly enough that Bernie doesn’t seem to mind. 

Most of Bernie’s clothes are already at Serena’s, left behind after nights spent there. She has a toothbrush in the bathroom, has started using Serena’s shampoo and soap. There’s a box of the bleach she uses for her hair in the cabinet, Serena rolling her eyes at Bernie’s use of the storebought stuff. It already feels a bit like her home, just without any of her personal effects. 

Some of the boxes go in the spare room (once Elinor’s room, but she hasn’t stayed the night in long enough that it no longer feels right to give her a room all her own anymore), some sit in the living room. The kitchen tools get put away almost as soon as they get home, slipped into drawers and cupboards, nestled in without any trouble at all. There’s a recipe box, too, and Serena puts it with her cookbooks, makes a note to look through it later, when she wants to surprise Bernie with a nice meal.

Bernie’s first night as an official resident of the house isn’t anything unique, nothing especially different about things except that Bernie’s name is no longer on the lease for a mostly unused flat close to the hospital. And yet, there’s an air of celebration about things. Jason is away for the night, off with Alan for a few days. He’d said that the clutter and hustle of Bernie moving in was overwhelming and needed to be somewhere calmer for a bit. Bernie is apologetic about it, which Jason waves off, says he knows it’s not her fault, that it’s just a matter of circumstance. He does say that he expects her things to be cleaned up by the time he returns, though. 

Bernie picks up takeaway on her way home from the hospital, Serena already at home, having worked the early shift. Bernie likes the idea of  _ home _ and  _ Serena _ and them being the same thing, and likes that the front light is on when she pulls into the driveway, that Serena has left the front door ajar for her. She tries not to draw comparisons to her life with Marcus - it isn’t fair, and in the early days, it was quite nice, but this feels - it feels more real, more solid, happier. It makes warmth blossom in Bernie’s chest, and a smile cross her face. 

Serena already has wine poured, has candles lit on the dinner table. She’s pulling plates down from the cabinets when Bernie walks into the kitchen, holds her hands out for them, and Serena gives them over, lets Bernie set the table, sends her off with a slight pat to her rump. Bernie tosses a smile over her shoulder and sets each place carefully, goes back for silverware and glasses. Serena’s putting the takeaway in bowls, a little more formal, a little fancier than normal. They both feel the momentousness of tonight, even if it’s almost the same as the dinner they’d had the night before. 

“Worried about having your name on a mortgage again?” Serena asks over the rim of her wine glass, when they’re seated at the table, napkins neatly in their laps, like they’re at a fancy restaurant and not in the dining room of what is now their house. Bernie huffs a laugh, a clipped “hah,” the sound she makes when she’s pleased, a stepping stone on the way to her braying laugh. 

“Worried about having someone else’s name on your mortgage again?” Bernie parries back, and Serena smiles, eyes shining. Affection spills out from her face, makes it alight. The low light of the room, the flickering candle flames, and her eyes - burning bright, all for Bernie. Serena clears her throat, they’ve been known to stare at each other for long moments a time or two, making eyes, as her mother would’ve said. 

Serena’s made dessert, a lemon cake, one of Bernie’s favorites, lightly iced and moist and Bernie accepts her piece gratefully - this was a surprise. “I thought about putting candles on it, a sort of “happy homecoming” cake, thought you could make a wish,” Serena says, a little apologetically, because she hasn’t done it. 

“Is this where I’m supposed to say something like, ‘I already have everything I could wish for’?” Bernie asks, her eyes dancing, and Serena laughs properly at that. 

“There’s just one thing missing, I suppose…” she trails off, and Serena gives her a look of consternation.

“What is it?” Her voice is a little higher, and Bernie can see that she’s racking her brain for what it might be. She takes pity on Serena, puts her hand gently atop Serena’s. “Another piece of cake,” she says, and Serena shoots her a look of such relief mixed with mock anger that Bernie has to laugh, just slides her plate towards Serena, who is already cutting into the pan, lifting out a slice for her.

\- - -

Bernie does not pack as quickly as she’d promised Jason. There are a few boxes still in the living room, pushed in a corner, some in the bedroom. Serena mentions it every few hours, it seems, when they’re at work, when they’re driving to and from work, over lunch. Says she stubbed her toe in the middle of the night on one of those boxes.

“I’ll get to it,” Bernie swears, “I just haven’t had the time.” 

“You could’ve done it last night instead of watching Countdown with Jason!” Serena says, bumping Bernie’s shoulder with her own, not a difficult feat, as they’re practically glued together, walking down the hallway of the hospital. 

“He asked!” Bernie says, indignant, “And if it’s not bothering him, it shouldn’t bother you! I’ll get to it!” Serena scoffs, turns down a different hallway, off to a meeting while Bernie heads back to AAU. Their little tiffs always leave Bernie with a smile, just tiny spats that neither one is truly angry about, the kind of thing that she could never have with Marcus, where everything became bigger than it was, every remark examined, held to the light to see if offense could be taken at it. 

And yet, Bernie comes home the next day, Serena’s day off, and finds that all of the boxes have disappeared. Some of her photos have been put on bookshelves, a stack of her medical texts are now next to Serena’s in the room that is ostensibly a home office, and Bernie sees little traces of herself all over now. She goes upstairs and sees that more of her clothes have been hung in the closet, that her bathroom supplies are nestled next to Serena’s almost exact duplicates. Bernie thinks it’s nice that Serena recognizes the idea that sometimes, even though they might own the same things, there’s a comfort to having something that is your own. 

She colors slightly at the thought of a particular box that was tucked inside of her things, that Serena must have found, one with vibrators and toys and lube, nothing that she’s embarrassed of, really - Serena has a box of her own, on the top shelf of the closet marked “Photos - 1990-1995,” but just feels a course of heat through her body at the thought of Serena knowing what she has. 

And then as she walks back down the hall, where Serena’s waiting for her in the kitchen, she notes the cupboard across from Jason’s bathroom, the cupboard she’d always assumed held linens for guests, or something like that. But she notices a keyhole on it, pulls at the handle, and finds that it’s locked. 

“What’s in that cupboard upstairs?” Bernie asks, while Serena is cooking shepherd’s pie for dinner - it’s the traditional Thursday night meal in their household, and Jason will be arriving home soon. 

“Hmmm, what cupboard?” Serena says, with false innocence, never good at playing ignorant. 

“The one across from Jason’s bathroom, the one that’s locked. I’ve not got a key for that, I don’t think,” Bernie says and Serena turns to face her, apron tied tightly around her waist, spatula in hand.  

“Oh, I think it’s just odds and ends. Not sure where the key is, to be honest. Must’ve put things in it a long time ago and forgotten about it.” Serena shrugs, and Bernie can tell she’s lying, can see that she’s not quite meeting Bernie’s eyes. But Bernie is a good one for letting things lie, can wait it out if need be, so she says no more about it. 

But she does ask Jason if he’s ever seen the inside of the cupboard, and he says he hasn’t. “It’s been shut the entire time I’ve lived here, I think,” he says, rubbing at his chin. “There must be a key around somewhere, though. All locked doors have keys.”

“Yes, quite right,” Bernie agrees. And tries to move on from the cupboard. There’s probably nothing too worrisome in it, it’s not big enough for a dead body, or a skeleton. It’s just something Serena’s keeping from Bernie, and that’s the part that eats away at her.

\- - -

The cupboard bothers Bernie, despite her attempts to tell herself that it’s fine, and it bothers her enough that she decides to make Serena a nice meal, decides that she’ll butter her up, ply her with wine, and make those winsome eyes that Serena finds so hard to resist. She makes what Serena refers to as “the famous Wolfe curry,” also known as the only thing Bernie can make without burning something, buys a more expensive bottle of shiraz than usual, and gets Serena’s favorite biscuits from the bakery near the hospital. 

When they’re sitting at the dining room table, the used pots and pans soaking in the sink in the kitchen - Bernie’s attempt to start the clean up early, not leave a mess for Serena in case this goes horribly, Bernie is so fidgety that Serena reaches out to still her hand. “You’re so nervous tonight,” she says. 

Bernie looks at Serena, pulls her fingers away, folds her hands in front of her, and she looks so serious and anxious all at once that Serena thinks she’s about to be told that Bernie is going to move out or they’re going to break up, that something has gone horribly wrong.

“Here’s the thing,” Bernie says, her voice quiet, but strong and sure, as if she’s practiced these words. “You helped me sort through all my things. You’ve seen literally everything I own now, I just want to know what’s in the cupboard.” 

Serena breathes a sigh of relief, almost laughs with the feeling of it. “Is that all? You should’ve said it bothered you so much.” Bernie thinks she will never quite get used to being able to say what she thinks all of the time, so concerned is she about how it will be interpreted, so worried that Serena won’t understand, even though she’s given no indication that will ever be the case. The beautiful thing about Serena is that if given enough evidence and a sound enough argument, she can be won over. And she shows a bit of leniency towards Bernie always, because she trusts her judgment so fully. 

“I just don’t like secrets between us,” Bernie says, her voice slightly querulous. “But if you really need something locked away and private, I can try to make peace with it.” She will, truly. She will bear up to it, and let Serena have something that they can’t share, and it will be all right. But Serena laughs softly again, reaches out to cup Bernie’s cheek.

“You are daft, sometimes. Let’s look in this cupboard, then,” Serena says, but her voice is low, carefully calm, and she reaches out for Bernie’s hand, pulls her up from the chair. “We’ll have the biscuits, after.” Bernie follows Serena dutifully up the stairs, Serena giving a squeeze to their joined hands as reassurance. 

Serena gets a tiny key from where it’s been hidden in her jewelry box on her dresser, opens the cupboard. There’s an assortment tucked away, a box marked “Elinor Primary School,” and one that just says “Adrienne” in crisp writing. Bernie can see a girl guide sash, but what’s at the front of everything are the trophies, “Best Speller 1984”, “School Spelling Champion 1985”, “Regional Best Speller 1985.” A whole collection of them. Serena’s shy about it. “I’m not...embarrassed, as such. I just. It’s such a poncy thing, and feels silly, when you’ve got awards from the RAMC.” Serena wraps her arms around herself, tries to feel comfortable with showing this part of herself to Bernie.

“Well, I didn’t get those when I was nine, Serena,” Bernie says, reasonably. Serena shrugs, tries to move them away from the little cupboard. “What was the longest word you spelled?” She’s clearly not going to let this drop, not at this moment anyway.

“Sometimes it’s not about the length of the word, honestly.” Serena doesn’t pretend like she doesn’t remember every word she was asked to spell, it’s the kind of thing that sits with her, a fully formed memory that stands out in the haze of childhood. “I got ‘eudaemonic,’ once. Felt good about that one.”

“What’s it mean?” Bernie asks, clearly curious, clearly not judging Serena for this, though Serena can't help but feel protective, defensive, about this part of her.

“Oh, something like ‘producing happiness,’ I suppose,” Serena says, shuts the cupboard door, tries to end the conversation. She feels a bit silly, hiding it away - it’s not like Bernie would never have guessed that Serena was a bit of a teacher’s pet, head of the class, but it’s one thing to know that, and another to be confronted with trophies that affirm that fact.

“Would you say I’m eudaemonic?” Bernie asks, with a little wiggle of her eyebrows and Serena just rolls her eyes, pushes her down the hallway. 

“Not at this exact moment, no. Something opposite of that." She's teasing Bernie, even though she's uncomfortable, and that's possibly the best case scenario. "Let’s leave it be,” she says sternly and Bernie shuts her mouth, still smiling a little, because Serena’s holding her hand, and Bernie knows she isn’t really mad.

Bernie says no more about it, just notices Serena’s left the cupboard unlocked. Jason noses into the cupboard, sees the trophies, when he comes home, says that’s why she’s not completely awful at Countdown. “I can spell quite well, I’ve just never had a mind for jumbles,” Serena says by way of explanation. 

Serena comes down the next morning to see one of her spelling trophies on the shelf next to a photo of Bernie receiving her major rank insignia. She touches the plastic bee with her fingers, smiles, thinks of her ten year old self spelling ‘incisive’ while her mother looked on, remembers practicing word lists late into the night, under the covers with a flashlight. She lightly rests her fingers on the picture frame, lets her forefinger gently caress the photographic Bernie, her stoic, but proud expression, a little younger, a little less careworn. “We’ve both been through some trials, haven’t we?” Bernie says from behind Serena. 

Serena turns with a wry smile. “Some of us more than others, perhaps.” She reaches out to Bernie, fixes the collar of her shirt, her fingers lightly touching Bernie’s neck, passing by the scar that acts as a harsh and constant reminder of how they almost didn’t meet, pats her shoulder once, twice, then pulls back. 

“It’s good to remember where we come from.” Bernie says, her gaze warm and fond, content, even. 

“Mmm,” Serena says, not really an affirmation, not a disagreement either, leans in to kiss Bernie, soft and sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic is brought to you by a person who once had a spelling bee trophy in the shape of a bee and whose father THREW IT OUT, so thank you for your time. (also the word 'incisive' is what knocked me out of the regional spelling bee, never gonna spell that wrong again as long as i live)


	12. i'm cold as fire, hot as ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[ktlsyrtis](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis) asked for: how about a classic? The “Characters trapped somewhere to hide from a storm” trope_
> 
>  
> 
> there's a bit of faffing around before it gets to that bit but hopefully you enjoy the journey to get there! canon divergence in their meeting and work circumstances, and this fic spends no time at the hospital, so canon events don't matter!!!!! when does this take place? who knows!!!!! please enjoy!

Bernie Wolfe doesn’t often spend time in London, preferring her slightly sleepier town of Holby, happy to avoid the hustle and bustle and the strangers around her, but occasionally needs must, and so she drives into the outskirts of town, parks, and takes a train into the metropolitan area. She usually stops for coffee along the way, peruses Waterstones (not that there’s anything about it that’s different than the one on Holby’s high street). She’s got a few bags with things for Cameron and Charlotte, a new set of stretches recommended by a physical therapist and a fresh book to read by the time she boards the metro to head back to her car. 

She’s sat next to a posh woman, expensive blouse, delicate earrings, brunette hair that clearly has spent time in a salon, well-manicured nails. She’s tapping away on her phone, and Bernie slides her eyes back over to her book, doesn’t look up until the lights in the train car flicker, and everything shudders to a halt. “Oh, please,” the woman says, and Bernie’s gaze snaps to hers. 

“At least you’ve got your phone to read by, mine’s almost out of battery,” Bernie says, as congenially as she can. She holds her book up, just a shadow. She can just make out some of the words, but has been told by many a physician not to strain her eyes by reading in low light. 

“Small mercies. Serena Campbell, by the way. Since we appear to be stuck here.” Serena holds out her hand and Bernie reaches for it.

“Bernie Wolfe, irregular train-taker and apparent bad luck charm,” she says as she grips Serena’s cool hand in her own, sliding her fingers against the smooth skin at the back of Serena’s hand. She holds on a bit longer than she might normally, and Serena doesn’t pull her hand away all that quickly either.

“Bernie Wolfe - you’re not - Did you start work on the Keller Ward at Holby City about a month ago? I’ve been meaning to duck down but it’s hard to get a spare minute!” They’re still holding hands, the emergency lights in the car flickering on. Before Bernie can answer, the conductor’s voice comes over the loudspeaker, giving some canned announcement about unexpected delays and electrical difficulties. It’s only after his voice clicks off that Bernie takes her hand back, folds both hands atop the book in her lap. 

“Yes, that’s me - and you’re the fearsome head of AAU that I’ve been warned about.” Serena laughs at that, a full, throaty sound, and Bernie’s ears warm to it, a funny feeling lodged just below her throat. 

“Oh, don’t believe everything you hear. Some of it’s tamer than the truth, I’ll wager,” she says, and Bernie thinks she’ll make time for Serena Campbell once they’re both back at work. “And you’re the hotshot trauma surgeon who doesn’t play by the rules. Ric’s ranted about you more than once.” Bernie rolls her eyes, an invisible gesture in the darkened car. She likes Ric well enough, they’re similar in their stubbornness and alpha nature, and that’s why they butt heads so much, she supposes.

“I’ve done my fair share of ranting about Ric myself. Perhaps a bit of competition is good for the ward, keeps us all sharp.” Bernie does actually believe that, does actually think that there needs to be some sort of driving force at the back of everything, and has never been one to shy away from a good bout. She doesn’t like to lose, and doesn’t admit defeat very often.

“I’d like to see you bring that mentality down to AAU sometime, see how you fare against old Icewoman Campbell. I’d give you a run for your money.” There’s something in her tone that gives Bernie pause, a flirtatiousness that puts the funny lump right back in Bernie’s chest. 

“You can’t be that old,” Bernie says before she can stop herself, but it’s true that Serena looks younger than her, but it might be the foundation dusted across her face or the no doubt expensive hair dye covering any greys. She can see Serena’s mouth crease into a smile, the emergency lights at each end of the car shedding just enough light to reflect on Serena’s teeth.  

“I’ll take the compliment, thanks very much. I’d bet we’re close to the same age, your blonde hair just hides your greys the way my salon hides mine.” Her hand self-consciously reaches for her short strands, gently smoothing down the ends at the nape of her neck. 

“Are you a gambling woman, then?” Bernie parries back, because this is the second time in as many minutes that Serena has dropped a reference in, and figure of speech or not, Bernie just wants to keep their conversation going. 

“Only when I’m sure of the outcome,” Serena answers and Bernie swears that if they were seated across each other at a candlelit dinner, Serena would have winked, and she would have blushed. 

“License, then, please,” Bernie says, holding out her hand expectantly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she explains when Serena turns to her with what Bernie can only assume is a confused expression. She pulls out her own wallet, fishes her own identification card out, her birthdate printed plainly. 

Serena mirrors her actions, digs through her purse until she finds it, puts it in Bernie’s waiting hand and takes Bernie’s in hers. The picture of Serena isn’t good, caught between a serious face and a smile, but Bernie thinks she still looks pretty. “Only a few months apart!” Serena crows, and Bernie warms at her competitive spirit spilling out so plainly. “What do I win for that?” Serena asks when she hands Bernie back her own license. 

“I’ll buy you coffee at Pulses,” Bernie says, sliding the ID back in her wallet, slipping it all back into her coat pocket. She’s just trying to ensure that she and Serena will find each other again, that Serena will have a reason to seek her out. 

The lights come back on, Bernie blinking in the brightness, and then the train lurches forward, as if it had never stopped. “I’ll hold you to that. Next stop’s mine,” Serena says as she stands, moves towards the doors, a quick look over her shoulder at Bernie, and then, Bernie is sure of it, Serena winks, quick and sly and then faces forward without another look back.

\- - - 

There’s some sort of conference on diagnostics and assessment that Henrik Hanssen decides to send Bernie and Serena to, and so they find themselves on a train, the greenery of southwestern England whizzing past as the sun rises. They’re taking an early train, just planning to spend the day in the conference, taking the train back in the evening - after a nice dinner, Serena has ensured. 

They don’t see each other at work much, Bernie occasionally popping down to AAU on a trauma call, Serena coming up to Keller on the odd consultation. But they do sometimes see each other at Pulses in the morning and share a brief chat before running off to their respective duties. Serena thinks it’s nice to have these occasional meet-ups, surprise encounters that never fail to brighten her day. She doesn’t know if she can call Bernie a friend, as such, but they’re a little above work colleagues. 

She doesn’t think about what any of her other work colleagues might look like out of scrubs, though.

Serena leans against the back of the seat on the train, tipping her chin up, looking at the ceiling. She let Bernie have the window seat, and Bernie seems rapt with the scenery outside. Serena takes the moment to tilt her head to look at Bernie, the long line of her neck, her hair pulled back in a clip. Her profile is lovely, Serena thinks, that long nose that wouldn’t look good on anyone else’s face gives Bernie’s pretty face a sophisticated elegance. Serena sighs, closes her eyes because she doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation, doesn’t know where Bernie stands on inter-hospital relationships, never mind if she would be remotely interesting in pursuing one with a woman.

But if Serena were being poetic, she’d say that Bernie has a touch of Sappho about her.

The loudspeakers crackle with an announcement - unexpected delay, should be back on track in an hour. And the train slows to a halt.

“Is it my fault this time, or yours?” Serena asks, because she can’t believe this is the second time she’s been stranded on a train with Bernie Wolfe.

“Oh, are we taking turns?” Bernie turns from the window, looks at Serena, with that slight glint in her eye, want and longing rolled up into one, her eyes tipped up at the corners, mirroring the corners of her mouth, which is smiling the small smile Serena has come to know quite well. 

“It hardly seems fair that one of us should have to shoulder the blame one hundred percent of the time,” she says. “I wish I’d brought something to eat, I can’t believe I forgot. Why didn’t Hanssen let us drive?” She can’t remember now, but it seems ridiculous now, whatever the reason.

“I believe he said he wanted us to be able to enjoy the trip without having to endure the stress of traffic,” Bernie offers. She even tries to mimic the stoic tone of the Swede and earns a laugh from Serena, who always finds it easier to laugh when Bernie is humorous with her. 

“And for that, we’ll miss the opening lecture,” she says. Bernie fiddles in her bag, pulls out a small package of crisps and holds it out to Serena. “Mm, salt and vinegar. You’ve got good taste.”

“I try,” Bernie says and the glint is still in her eye and her tone is laced with something else, lingering on the word ‘try.’ Serena looks away, down into the bag in her hands. She opens it a bit too roughly, a few crisps spilling out from the force of the plastic ripping. One lands on Bernie’s thigh and Serena reaches for it without thinking, her fingers brushing against Bernie’s leg, pressing ever so slightly into the soft flesh there, warm even through the fabric of her trousers.

“Sorry,” Serena says, her voice breathy and quiet, and then she pops the crisp in her mouth and Bernie’s eyes go dark. 

Bernie clears her throat, and turns to look out the window. Serena crunches as quietly as she can, so aware of every sound coming from her mouth, swallows almost silently, though it still sounds loud to her ears in the practically oppressive silence coming from Bernie. 

“Let’s play twenty questions,” she says suddenly and Serena almost chokes on the crisp, startled from her quiet reverie on all the disgusting noises the human body can make.

“I assume you already have something in mind?” Serena asks when she’s swallowed her mouthful, coughing slightly to dislodge a crumb. Bernie nods. “Animal, vegetable or mineral?” 

“Animal, I suppose,” Bernie says, smiling at Serena’s use of the traditional question to start things off. 

“Is it on the train with us?” Bernie nods and Serena starts looking around the car. There aren’t any pets on board, so it must be one of the many people. 

“I think I’ve made it too easy,” Bernie says. “You’ve already narrowed it down quite a bit.” 

“I’m just very good at these sorts of games. Don’t think you can distract me. Are they wearing red?” There are five people in the car wearing red, two in yellow, too many to easily count in blue. 

“Do I win something if you can’t guess? And no, not red.” Bernie steals the bag of crisps from Serena’s lap, takes a small handful and begins to munch. 

“Do I win something if I do guess it correctly?” Serena arches her eyebrow. “Are they a woman?” There are only six women on the train car. 

“I suppose you need higher stakes than coffee at Pulses. It is a woman.” Serena squints, tries to see which of the women would be easily visible from Bernie’s position. She wastes three questions on hair color, just to find out it’s a brunette woman. There are only two with that criteria on board.

“The winner buys our supper tonight, how about that?” Serena suggests. “How can you see any more of this mystery woman than I can? You must’ve seen her when she walked to her seat - you’ve got a memory on you.”

“Is there a question in there somewhere?” Bernie is almost laughing, her mouth quirked, and Serena likes the look of it. There’s a crisp crumb at the corner of her lip and Serena manages to still her hand this time, to keep herself from brushing it away. She just taps at the corner of her own mouth, and Bernie gets the hint, wipes at her own face with the back of her hand. 

“Hint, please,” Serena says. 

“To get a hint, you’ll need to buy the wine.” Serena rolls her eyes but nods, because it doesn’t matter, not really. “You’re thinking too hard,” is what Bernie comes up with for a hint and Serena nearly pouts at the ridiculousness of it. She does hate to lose. 

“Sorry, folks,” the conductor’s voice comes back on over the loudspeaker, “We’ve got to add another hour of delay to our time here. There’s a stalled train ahead blocking the rails. Nothing to be done. An attendant will be around with vouchers for a free meal at Paddington upon our arrival.”

“Think that will be comparable to the conference-provided luncheon we’re sure to miss now?” Serena asks.

“Is that one of your twenty questions?” Bernie asks and Serena just raises her eyebrow with mock austerity.

“Is she pretty?” Serena asks, knows she could end the whole game by just guessing one of the two women and narrowing it down through process of elimination, but she’s enjoying the banter too much. 

“Very,” Bernie says and Serena twists her mouth into a moue of thoughtfulness. 

“Then it must be the woman three rows up to the left,” Serena says, only to have Bernie shake her head. “Oh you’re lying. You can’t tell if either one of them is pretty!” She doesn’t like to lose, but knows Bernie is having some fun at her expense, and can’t quite find it in herself to be mad about it either. 

“I didn’t say it was the woman on the left. Or the woman on the right.” Bernie has an air of self-satisfaction about her that is keying Serena up all the more, a smugness playing around her mouth. 

“I can see why Ric keeps trying to chuck you down to AAU. You must be a handful up there,” Serena says. 

“Give up?” is all Bernie says in response, though the grin is still playing around her mouth and Serena doesn’t want to admit to herself how much she likes it. Or the fact that she is going to have to give up. 

“If it’s the -” Serena starts and Bernie interrupts her by saying, “It’s you.” Serena closes her mouth with a snap. Not what she expected, perhaps. Bernie just smiles a constrained half-smile that isn’t anything like the other happier facial expressions Serena’s seen, and thinks perhaps Bernie’s let something slip she wasn’t planning to. 

“I guess dinner is on me, then,” Serena says, because it doesn’t quite feel right to say thank you, though that’s what she wants to say, feels complimented by Bernie, someone who embodies Serena’s idea of attractiveness so completely that it feels a little ridiculous at times. Not that Serena has any qualms about how she herself looks, it’s just that Bernie’s beauty is a little more rare, she thinks. 

“And wine, too,” Bernie says, her voice low and it thrums through Serena. How she imbues such short sentences with that depth of emotion is beyond Serena and she doesn’t for one second think it might because of her attraction to the other woman that every word seems weighted with the promise of something more.

The train ends up being three hours late and Bernie and Serena decide to skip the conference altogether - Serena writes Henrik a quick email about the unavoidability of rail delays and that perhaps next time he would be more inclined to reimburse mileage, if only to ensure a more reliable source of transportation for his surgeons. They find a small Italian place far enough from Paddington that most of the tourists have dispersed and the prices aren’t too pocket-gouging, and Serena orders the wine and gets them garlic bread, pretends not to watch with heavy eyes the way Bernie swirls pasta onto her fork or the way she slurps the noodles into her mouth, her cheeks taut, her lips pursed.

“If the train gets delayed on the way back to Holby, I’m walking,” is all she says, and then she wipes a spot of sauce from Bernie’s cheek before she can stop herself.

\- - -

Holby International is a fancy name for an airport with six gates and some of the laxest security Bernie has ever been through (and she’s been through her share of airports). She and Serena are taking a trip to New York - Bernie’s attendance on this trip quite last minute as Sacha Levy canceled suddenly, having come down with a bout of the flu. Hanssen, never one to miss an opportunity to send his surgeons to educational opportunities, switches the tickets over to Bernie’s name and calls the conference to change the registration. 

And with a day’s notice, Bernie finds herself getting ready for a three-day trip to America. Luckily she’s never been a heavy packer, easily able to throw her things into a duffel bag, a few odds and ends into an old army knapsack, and she’s ready to go. 

The sky is cloudy, when Bernie arrives at the airport, the weather cold, just below freezing, and she pulls her coat around her more tightly, a long pale pink coat that she’s had for years and loves best of any of her outerwear. It’s more feminine than she would normally go for, but it’s clean and modern-looking and suits her just fine. 

Serena is waiting at the ticketing counter for Bernie, rolls her eyes at Bernie’s bags, her own luggage a fancy matching set, and she’s got her leather purse slung over her shoulder, perfectly matching her scarf. “I hope our hotel has an ironing board for your sake, I bet nothing is folded in that,” she says, pointing at Bernie’s duffel bag. 

Bernie could try to deny it, but that seems pointless. In the army, she packed with ruthless precision, neat folds and rolled socks stuffed in her shoes. Now, she doesn’t feel the same need to keep things tidy, rebels against it, almost, because she has the freedom to do so. So she just shrugs, pulls the shoulder strap up, closer to her neck. And follows Serena as they check in for their flight.

“Just a warning, folks,” the desk agent says, “there are some unsettling weather patterns ahead and it might result in delays.” Bernie and Serena exchange a look, and Serena mutters under her breath, “What sort of patterns do you think they are - stripes? Polka dots?” and Bernie bites back a laugh. 

They head through the security gates, the line moving quickly and efficiently. Bernie shucks off her ankle boots, folds her coat gently and places them both in the bin. Serena’s got a laptop that she has to pull out as well, but they get through without a hassle. Bernie is, frankly, surprised Serena hasn’t paid for some kind of pre-check, some way to get through the line faster, and when she asks Serena about it, Serena flushes a little, just says that she does have it, didn’t think to use it this time. Bernie wonders if it’s because Serena doesn’t want to stray too far from her, feels like that might be wishful thinking on her part. 

“I’ll get us coffees,” Serena says, when they’re at the gate, and Bernie tries to protest, to say they can go together, but Serena waves her away, walks quickly to the closest kiosk, close enough that Bernie can watch her order. She’s flirting with the barista, Bernie can tell, and then she tilts back her head and laughs, and she’s irresistable. Bernie wonders if they’ll end up with free pastry or larger sizes, or if Serena will just end up with a phone number. 

She returns, two coffees and two pastries, in a small brown paper bag. Her face is still bright and happy, still riding on the high of her encounter, but she beams down at Bernie as she hands over the spoils. “Strong and hot, that’s what I asked for,” she says and Bernie takes a sip, almost burns her tongue. “Well, it’s definitely hot, I take it.” Serena settles next to Bernie, and their thighs brush. Bernie feels the contact all the way through her body, an electric pulse that shocks her system. 

It’s just then that the snow begins to fall, light flakes, but visible enough from their seats through the large glass windows. Snow is such a rarity in Britain, and something Bernie’s experienced even less of in recent years, spending so much time in the desert. She’s tempted to stand in front of the window and watch, to enjoy the novelty of it all.   


“Wonder how long that’ll last,” Serena says aloud, sipping at her drink, nosing into the pastry bag to pull out a flaky croissant, wrapped in a napkin that won’t do anything against the crumbs that are sure to fall, no matter how carefully Serena eats. She hands the bag over to Bernie, who is still staring at the window.  

“Can’t remember the last time I saw snow,” Bernie says, because she’s missed Christmases and New Years and suddenly, desperately, has the urge to stand outside and stick her tongue out to catch a few flakes. 

“Well, this is probably all we’re getting this year, just five minutes of measly snowflakes, not enough to cover the ground, and then it’ll be on it’s way and the rain will start again.” Serena isn’t trying to rain on Bernie’s parade, she’s sure, but she can’t help but feel disappointed in the fact that Serena isn’t as taken with the weather as she is. 

Serena’s weather prediction turns out to be horribly incorrect. The snow just begins to fall harder, the tarmac covered in white soon enough. Announcements are coming over the loudspeakers that flights are being grounded, delayed, rerouted. Their flight gets pushed back an hour, then two. Serena gets them more coffees, from a different barista this time. They get lunch at the small airport restaurant, a glass of wine each. 

On the third hour of the delay, it’s announced that there’s no sign of the snow stopping, that it’s dangerous flying conditions, that all travelers should make their way home, the airport will be shutting down. Bernie’s never experienced such a thing, not from weather, anyway. Serena types out an email to Hanssen while they wait near the cab stand. 

But it seems that every taxi in Holby is otherwise engaged, or keeping off the roads entirely, because there isn’t one in sight. Serena calls the cab company, and is told that she should expect to wait at least an hour for a pick up. “How is it,” she asks, “That every time I’m with you, there’s some sort of catastrophic travel emergency?" 

“I wouldn’t say catastrophic,” Bernie hedges as they go back inside to wait, a few other straggling travelers around. They find two seats against a wall and rest their heads back. Bernie can see Serena’s getting a bit drowsy, the combination of travel stress and heavy red wine taking its toll, and her head starts to loll, droop. 

“You can use my shoulder,” Bernie offers, and Serena smiles a drowsy smile and complies, her head resting easily against Bernie, and she immediately worries that her shoulder is too bony, that she’s not a comfortable pillow, that she should have bunched up her coat to act as a pillow.  

“I can practically hear you thinking,” Serena murmurs. “Your whole body tensed up. Whatever it is, it’s fine. Relax and let me rest.” The matter-of-factness of her order sets Bernie’s nerves aright, and she does relax, does loosen her posture. Finds her head resting against the top of Serena’s, her cheek pressed into Serena’s hair. 

They don’t move until Serena’s phone buzzes with a notification from the cab company that their taxi will be another forty-five minutes in coming. “I don’t think we’re ever going to get anywhere if we keep trying to travel together,” Serena says, and closes her eyes once more.

\- - -

It seems inevitable, then, that when they’re on the road together, driving home from a day spent in London, something they occasionally try to do together, after that first meeting, after their friendship has grown to a place where they seek each other’s company outside of work, that they get caught in the middle of a massive thunderstorm as they leave dinner. 

“You’re bad luck, you are,” Serena says, running towards the car with her parka over her head, like some sort of bizarre nun.

“Me? I could say the same thing for you!” Bernie fumbles with her keys, getting drenched, not caring. Her shirt is practically see-through, something Serena might appreciate if it weren’t for the fact that they were standing in the middle of a torrential downpour, threatening to flood the lowlands of Holby. “I don’t have the keys,” she says, after several long minutes of combing through her purse. 

The sky is dark, no light in sight, just a flash of light cracking the sky in two, a boom of thunder. Serena drops her coat in defeat. “What?” she yells over the sound of the pouring rain, droplets falling into her eyes, her hair a bedraggled mess. 

“I don’t have the keys!” Bernie calls back over the car, and Serena looks like she might murder Bernie right then and there. “I must have left them in the pub!” She runs back towards the building they just left, a roadside pub full of locals that had eyed them suspiciously when they walked in. Serena just stands in the rain and waits, because there’s nothing else for it, and she can hardly keep up with Bernie when she runs (that’s an assumption, of course, they’ve never gone running together). 

Bernie comes back soon enough with the keys dangling from her hand, Serena lounging against the car waiting for her. She laughs at the sight of Bernie, so heroic with the key ring in her hand, so wet that there’s nothing to do but revel in the humor of it - drown in the humor of it, she thinks. Bernie’s ridiculous fringe is in her eyes, droopy and silly and Serena flicks it back before she can pull her hand back. “Wouldn’t want you to fumble with the door lock,” she says in a low voice as an explanation, because there is no reason one coworker should brush the hair out of another’s eyes.

Bernie gets the doors open, they seat themselves gingerly, trying to avoid getting the inside of the vehicle too wet, but it’s a fruitless mission, and Serena gets the giggles again, a snort escaping from her as a slosh of water comes out of her shoe. And she only laughs harder when Bernie turns the key and the engine sputters, putters, and halts. “It’s probably drowned too,” she says between gasps of laughter, and Bernie looks at her like she’s gone insane. 

“There’s an inn or something down the street. Let’s just try to get a room there, wait out the storm,” Bernie says. “Wait for a mechanic. Or a tow. Or something.” Serena tries to gather herself, the cold of the water seeping into her skin now, sobering her, but at the thought of going back out into the downpour, she loses it again, all inappropriate laughter and church giggling, as her mother called it. 

They make it to the hotel, the clerk wide-eyed at the sight of them, pale faces and dripping clothes and sloshing shoes, one raincoat between the two of them. Bernie gives Serena a look as if to weigh whether or not she’s in any condition to speak to other people, and Serena shrugs, because she thinks she might start laughing again at any moment. Bernie gets the room keys and the wifi password and they slosh down the hallway, their shoes making squelching noises with every step and Serena biting her lip to keep the laughter back, but this time, Bernie’s doing the same, her mouth pressed tightly together.

It’s hardly the nicest hotel room either of them have ever stayed in, but it looks clean enough and housekeeping was already tasked with bringing them extra towels. Serena feels a little calmer at the prospect of a hot shower, and being wrapped in a dry towel. And then she’s immediately sobered when Bernie starts stripping off her wet, heavy clothing without a second thought, leaving a squishy, damp pile made up of her trousers and her shirt. She’s still got her bra and pants on, both white, simple, yet somehow delicate on Bernie’s slender frame. 

Serena is standing in the corner, hugging herself for warmth, waiting for the arrival of the towels before disrobing. She’s trying to look anywhere but at Bernie, who is so easy in her skin, so unaware of her impact. She looks at the ugly piece of hotel art above the bed, Paris at night, but in an abstract sort of way. Nothing she’s ever had the appreciation for. And then it registers - there’s just the one bed. One bed, two of them. She thinks Bernie will shrug it off, will say something about bunking in worse conditions in her army days, will roll over and switch off the lamp, falling asleep instantly. 

And Serena will lay awake the whole night through trying desperately not to touch Bernie Wolfe. 

Bernie is waving her hand in front of Serena’s face and she blinks, focuses on Bernie’s face, touched with concern of someone who has asked a question multiple times without receiving an answer.  “I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Serena says, with a little shake of her head, to clear her thoughts. 

“I just asked, if it was all right if I hop in the shower,” Bernie says, and Serena nods mutely, because Bernie is still stood in front of her in nothing but her underthings and it’s almost too much to take. She can see the freckles on Bernie’s shoulders, a mole right above the left cup of her bra, a small scar on her abdomen. Serena blinks again, looks up at Bernie, who still looks a bit concerned.

“Oh, right. Yes, of course it’s all right. I’ll just wait for the towels, set some out for you - on the toilet, maybe?” Serena asks, and Bernie nods, and then the implication that Serena is allowed to enter the loo while Bernie is naked in the shower sits between them. But Bernie, stoic that she is, turns and walks right into the bathroom, turns the shower on, and Serena knows it must be as hot as she can get it, because steam filters through the door Bernie has left slightly ajar.

Serena isn’t quite sure what to do while she waits for the towels, flips the television on, finds some random house remodeling show, and stands in the middle of the room, unwilling to get any of the furniture wet. She reaches down for Bernie’s clothes, lays them across the back of chair at the desk, wonders if the hotel has any sort of drying service, wonders what they’ll wear to bed that night - it isn’t like they planned to spend a night in a hotel.

Serena tries to remember if there’s a gift shop, if there’s anything close by, if it’s worth running out into what the tv playing behind the front desk called “the worst storm of the last three decades.” There’s a knock at the door, and Serena answers it, a young man loaded up with towels on the other side. She smiles, asks him if there’s anywhere around where she can get some fresh clothes. He says no, but that there’s a lost and found full of clothes they’ve collected, all clean and dry, if she wants to pick out things. “Wait a tick,” she says, takes the towels and goes into the bathroom. “I’m getting us some clothes, be back in a moment,” she says to Bernie, who seems to be enjoying the hot water far too much - all she gets in response is a hum and a low “thanks.”

The lost and found is - well, it’s full of clothes that are clean, and that’s the most Serena can say about it. She pulls out a couple of ratty t-shirts, well-worn, one for Manchester United, the other for some band Serena’s never heard of. She doesn’t go near the undergarments, wouldn’t use any pants found in a cardboard box behind the desk of a two-star hotel. It’s only out of desperation she’s considering the t-shirts as it is. 

 “Don’t suppose you have spare phone chargers about too,” she says hopefully, and the smiling employee pulls out a cord from some other mysterious box behind the desk and Serena thinks she’ll ask no more questions, just takes her new belongings and leaves, still leaving a trail of wet footprints and water drips behind her. 

Bernie’s wrapped in nothing but a towel, sitting on the bed, watching the same home improvement show that Serena had on before she left. She smiles at Serena, warm and content, like this isn’t an inconvenience, like there’s nothing else she’d rather be doing than sitting in this hotel room with Serena. 

“Your turn. I did try to save some hot water for you,” she says and Serena chuffs out a mocking laugh, before tossing the shirts at her. 

“Something dry and - I’m told - clean,” she says as Bernie holds them up. Serena begins to peel off her clothes, still soaked through, still stuck to her skin. She wonders if the young hotel attendant smiled so much because he could see so much. She has on a matching set of underthings, edged in lace, but nothing much fancier. She sees Bernie swallow out of the corner of her eye, doesn’t know if it’s just a regular bodily function or if it’s in response to the tableau she’s baring to Bernie’s gaze. Decides she can’t think about it, drapes her trousers and blouse over the other chair, in the corner of the room. 

“Take your time,” Bernie calls as Serena closes the door behind her, “Soak it all in." 

The bathroom is still steamy, still damp, smells of the hotel shampoo, a citrusy scent that Serena supposes is better than something cloying and floral. She rubs a hole in fog on the mirror, looks at herself for the first time, mascara dotting her cheeks, her freckles visible on her nose, all her foundation washed off. She looks something akin to a drowned rat. She takes off her bra and pants, uses the toilet - something she didn’t realize she needed to use so badly until she sat down on the seat, and then turns the knob on the shower, all the way to hot, the spray hitting the floor of the tub loudly. 

It feels luxurious, glorious, even, to be pelted by warm water, to wash off the filthy feeling that comes with being covered in rainwater. Serena lets the water fall, spends a long time just standing in the spray before she even reaches for the soap, lathering it up between her hands. She doesn’t even grab a wash rag, just rubs the bar on her body, colors at the thought that Bernie must have done the same thing. 

When she’s had her fill, Serena wraps a large fluffy towel around herself, thinks that whatever else the hotel provides, it has some of the best towels she’s ever experienced. Bernie has the Manchester shirt on, the rest of her body under the covers so Serena can’t see what she’s got on for her bottoms. She’d pulled on her knickers back on before leaving the shower, grabs the other shirt and pulls it over her head before dropping the towel on the floor. She can feel Bernie watching her as she comes around to the other side of the bed, and Serena tries not to feel nervous about it all. 

The home improvement show has gone into another episode, some kind of marathon of episodes, and Serena makes an attempt to relax as she settles under the covers. There’s just a little sliver of space between them on the bed. Bernie seems to be conspicuously trying to stay to one side, her posture a little stiff, the way she gets when she’s overthinking something. Serena has to stop herself from saying that they’re both adults, because it’s trite to say that, and it’s something they both know. What makes this situation different, harder, is the heaviness that sits between them, the times when Serena has reached out to touch Bernie in a way she doesn’t normally touch her friends, or when Bernie looks at her with dark eyes that make Serena feel naked under her gaze.  

And then Serena feels Bernie’s foot nudge against her own, cold toes despite the heavy blankets. She doesn’t look at Bernie, just slides her foot against Bernie’s, lets the back of her foot trail up Bernie’s ankle, decides Bernie is just as naked under the covers as she is. Bernie’s hand moves slightly, over the invisible line between them, and Serena’s hand moves too, their fingers overlapping slightly, neither one looking anywhere but the television. 

Serena shuffles slightly, her whole body, so she’s closer to Bernie, an almost infinitesimal movement, but it’s enough to make Bernie mirror the move, and she can feel the heat from Bernie’s thighs, no dip in the covers between them anymore, nothing between their bare legs, almost touching now. 

They spend enough time together now that they are comfortable in their friendship, like a well-worn hoodie. Serena thinks she knows almost everything about Bernie, but thinks that, perhaps, there’s one thing she doesn’t know that she’s dying to. Serena is known for her almost voracious approach when it comes to questions she doesn’t know the answer to, and it’s this mindset that makes her turn her head, stare at Bernie’s right cheek until Bernie turns too. Her gaze flicks down to Bernie’s lips, and Bernie’s tongue darts out, leaves a slight wet spot on the pale pink of her lower lip. Serena leans forward, slowly, giving Bernie the chance to back away, but Bernie meets her in the middle, and then Serena knows what Bernie tastes like. 

She can’t get enough of kissing Bernie, can still taste the rainwater, but there’s something behind it all, all warm and wet, and when she slides her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, flicks it against the seam of her lips, she’s chasing the flavor she can’t quite define. Bernie, rather than exploring with her mouth, is exploring with her hands, one already on the bare skin of Serena’s back, the other in Serena’s hair. 

It doesn’t feel strange, it doesn’t feel odd, and it’s not the first time Serena has kissed a woman, but it’s maybe the best kiss she’s ever had, and wonders if that’s due to some special skill Bernie brings to the table, decides it’s her duty to figure it out. So she keeps kissing Bernie, because she likes to solve problems, because she likes to know the answers, because she doesn’t think she ever wants to stop. 

It’s Bernie who pulls away first, but doesn’t stray far, just begins placing open-mouthed kisses on Serena’s jaw, her neck, right below her ear. She’s pulling at the collar of Serena’s shirt, nips her slightly at her clavicle, and Serena lets her head tilt back into the soft downiness of the pillows, content to be the new landscape and for Bernie to be the intrepid adventurer. 

The rain is still pounding against the window when Bernie slides her hand into Serena’s knickers, making Serena buck slightly at the contact, even though she anticipated it. She pulls Bernie’s mouth back to her own, kisses her open-mouthed and wet as Bernie’s fingers circle Serena’s clit, teasing her, toying with the wetness that’s already pooled there. She gasps into Bernie’s mouth when Bernie slides one finger in, then two, crooking them slightly. Bernie throws a leg over Serena, lets Serena’s thigh nestle between her legs, ruts against it slightly as she keeps a rhythm going with her fingers, and Serena can’t help but respond, the friction everywhere all so much and all so wonderful. She’s panting quickly, and it feels like she’s wanted this forever, from the moment she met Bernie on that train, and when she comes, her eyes are closed and all she can think is how grateful she is for travel delays, because without them, would she have ever gotten this.

They curl towards each other in bed, later, both naked. Bernie is enamored of Serena’s face, it seems, now that she’s allowed to touch it at will. She trails her finger down Serena’s forehead, right in between her eyebrows, down the tip of her nose, across her lips, smiling as Serena dips her tongue out to wet her finger as it goes past, and into the small cleft of her chin, then cups Serena’s face in her hands, her fingers long, her palm broad, and Serena nuzzles into the touch. 

“You need a turn,” Serena murmurs, though she’s a bit tired, wouldn’t mind a bit of shut-eye before any more sexual escapades happen again - and she’ll make sure that they happen again. 

“We’ve time,” Bernie says, sounding a bit sleepy herself, her eyes closed, one hand still on Serena’s face, the other resting at the dip of Serena’s waist. “The rain doesn’t sound like it’s going to let up anytime soon.”


	13. a lifetime just won't be enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _leatherpumpkins asked for: Bernie and Serena say "I love you" for the first time (not necessarily at the same time yknow)_
> 
> a short little one for one of my best pals. but guess what? there are exactly two lines of dialogue in this. buckle up for that.
> 
> this is basically just a rambly little fic bc i spent a lot of time thinking about bernie and serena's love languages, and definitely serena is words of affirmation and physical touch, and bernie is gift-giving and acts of service. just sharing that also, idk. who ever knows.

Serena Campbell has a reputation as a bit of a flirt. She has a smile for everyone (or at least those who deserve it), a wink in her eye, a gentle touch on the shoulder or a pat on the back. She has a charismatic aura that hangs about her like a halo and draws people in - they want to be pulled into her orbit, they want her to bestow that beaming smile on them. 

When she meets Bernie Wolfe, she cannot stop touching her, it seems. She reaches out to reassure Bernie of her support. She lets their fingers touch when she hands Bernie a coffee from Pulses. They walk through the halls of the hospital with their shoulders brushing against each other. This is new to her, this constant need to reach out to someone. There’s a difference, she’s found, between the touches she gives to everyone, and the touches she gives to Bernie. With everyone else, she simply is trying to further her point, to win them over to her side, to make herself seem warm, approachable. It’s a tried and true method for patient care, a way to use her feminine wiles to get whatever it is that she wants. When she touches Bernie, though, it’s simply because she  _ wants _ to. That’s all that lays behind her touch. She wants Bernie to know that she’s next to her, that she’s on Bernie’s side. She doesn’t want anything from Bernie, except her friendship, her companionship. That’s all she means by the gentle backrubs, the high fives upon their successes, the shoulder bumps when Bernie makes her smile. 

She wonders if Bernie knows that with every touch, with every press of her fingers to Bernie’s arm, every caress on her back, she is telling Bernie how much she loves her.

\- - - 

Serena loves Bernie, knows it in her heart, has known it for so long, holds it close to her like a blanket on a cold winter’s night. She still colors in embarrassment every time she remembers her confession of love before Bernie fled to Kiev, before Bernie ran scared, because the prospect of being faced with getting everything she ever wanted was too much for her to bear. Bernie has tried to assuage her of that discomfort, has tried to reaffirm the fact that it wasn’t that she didn’t want to hear that Serena was in love with her, but that she wanted to hear it  _ so much _ that she was frightened of it all. It doesn’t always help, but Serena likes hearing it all the same. 

Bernie doesn’t live with Serena, not properly, anyway. She still keeps a flat near the hospital, a reasonable one-bedroom with a small kitchen and an even smaller balcony that overlooks an alleyway that stinks of garbage. Serena spends the night there, sometimes, when Jason is fine on his own, and she can get away. On those nights, she likes to try to make Bernie moan loudly, to yell out when she comes. Bernie is so taciturn in so many aspects of her life that anytime Serena can get her to let go, it feels like a true victory. They spend the nights in Bernie’s flat lost in each other, wrapped around each other, drinking in each other. It’s everything Serena fantasized about for herself when she was young, the dream of what being in love would be like. She never imagined she would have to wait until after her fiftieth birthday to find it, but it seems to be worth the wait. 

Bernie spends the night at Serena’s a fair amount too, the closed circuit of Jason and Serena having expanded to allow her into their ranks. Jason likes to hear stories of her time in the military, likes to quiz her on some of the more exciting medical procedures she’s done in the field. He doesn’t shy away from the gory details she shares, the tragedies as well as the successes. He just wants to know about it all, cataloging it away in his brain, an endless repository for information about the things that interest him. Serena often tells Bernie how much she appreciates the care and attention she gives Jason, and Bernie only ever responds with a shrug, just says that it’s nothing special, says that it makes her happy to do it. Serena doesn’t want to make either of them uncomfortable, but their easy camaraderie means so much to her, makes her heart swell and tears form at the corners of her eyes. 

Serena tries to tell Bernie every day how much she appreciates her, tries to let her know that she’s valued and wanted and cherished. Bernie doesn’t take praise well, and Serena thinks some part of her is trying to wear Bernie down, to make it so she will someday be comfortable hearing compliments, hearing the good words people have for her. Bernie’s family was never one for saying what they meant, for thanking each other, for talking in general. Serena thinks Bernie grew up in rather a quiet home, stilted conversations over dinner. Bernie doesn’t talk about it much, just says that she’s the talkative one in her family, and Serena tries not to look like that’s difficult to believe. So she says to Bernie every day that she’s wonderful, that she’s amazing, even on the days when they fight, because Bernie is still wonderful and amazing in her eyes. She’s even more those qualities when she won’t capitulate to Serena just because they’re together, just because they’re in love.

\- - -

Serena likes it best when Bernie spends the night at her house, when she can wake up in the morning and know that all the things she loves best in the world are under the same roof. Bernie is an early riser, a habit ingrained from years of army training, dating back even from early morning track practices in university, in school growing up. She wakes with the sun and putters around the house, as comfortable in Serena’s home as if it were her own, and that’s what makes Serena’s heart sing. 

There’s a morning, when the sunlight filters in through the gauzy curtains, her bedroom bathed in warm yellows, a breeze coming from the overhead fan lazily spinning above her, when Serena still has sleep in her eyes, the duvet bunched around her, keeping her cozy and safe, when Serena knows she’s the happiest she’s ever been. She can hear the sounds of Bernie making coffee in the kitchen below, can hear the voices from the television that tell her Jason is awake as well, thinks Bernie is probably preparing a cup of tea for him as well. 

She hears Bernie come up the stairs, watches her open the bedroom door, her hair messy and tangled. She’s wearing Serena’s robe, fluffy terrycloth and pink. She’s holding two cups of coffee precariously, in one hand, the steam rising in curls. Serena smiles up at her, slides up in the bed a little, accepts her coffee, uses her other hand to caress Bernie’s face, to draw her down for a brief touch on the lips - they both have morning breath, a slight funk permeating their gentle kiss. 

“Mm, I love you,” Serena says before she can stop the words from coming out. She’s said it to Bernie in so many other ways, with hugs and massages and shoulder squeezes and telling Bernie how much she means to her, saying how lovely Bernie looks when they go out to dinner. But this is the first time she’s said the words aloud. Bernie’s cheeks pink up, but her face looks happy. She leans in to kiss Serena again, light and gentle, hands her the other cup of coffee while she sheds the robe and slides under the covers next to her, pulls back some of the comforter to her side, lets her shoulder touch Serena’s as she takes back her mug. They let the morning wash over them, a quiet and perfect haven.

\- - -

Bernie isn’t accustomed to the business of touching, to reaching out to someone else with her hands. She has never felt the need to cajole people to her way of thinking, she simply barges in and assumes people will follow her lead. It’s how she became a Major, how she was so successful in her career in the RAMC. She doesn’t use her words except to explain what she’s already decided. She’s sometimes described as cold, business-like, efficient. She’d prefer instead to be called selective. There’s no need for her to be kind to everyone, no need to expend energy on those that disagree with her. She tries, for Serena’s sake, to be better at patient care, to win over board members and Hanssen, but Serena’s easiness with other people is not a quality Bernie possesses, so she just works hard to win people over through sheer skill and determination, by impressing them with what she has to offer.

Bernie thinks Serena is sometimes frustrated with her lack of facility with words, that she’s not extroverted, that she prefers when she can just be alone with one or two people she knows and trusts. She thinks Serena wishes she would be more vocal about everything, in their relationship, in work, everything. But instead, she does what she knows how to do. She finds gifts, things that make her think of Serena whenever she’s out and about, whether it’s a flask of shiraz or a bottle of wine from the airport. She wants to reaffirm to people that they are on her mind even when they aren’t physically present. That’s what she is good at, the objects giving her a way to express her love without having to say the words, without having to fumble for the exact lines she wants to say.

She brings Serena pastry in the mornings, coffee in the afternoons as a pick-me-up. She leaves little trinkets around Serena’s house, things that will make Serena’s life easier, like a new cover for the shower drain, or a potato peeler because Serena’s has vanished somewhere along the way. She brings Jason books on the history of the RAMC, shows him her medals, her insignia. Little tokens of affection, bestowed at random. She takes delight in celebrating birthdays, in finding the presents that will mean most to the recipients. Christmas, too, she loves, because it’s a day devoted to the way she can best show how much she cares. Serena opens a scarf, in the perfect shade of blue, a book she mentioned months ago that she’d been meaning to read, a framed photo of the two of them, taken at an AAU Christmas party the previous year, Serena beaming widely at the camera, Bernie looking at Serena with a pink face and happy eyes. No one could mistake that look to be anything but one of love and adoration.

Serena heaps thanks and praise upon Bernie, who colors under the attention. She doesn’t give gifts because she wants the appreciation or the recognition. She thinks Serena probably has figured this out by now, thinks Serena doesn’t know how to reciprocate except with her words, and such a tight hug that it knocks the breath out of Bernie’s lungs.

\- - - 

Bernie tries to do things for Serena, and sometimes drives her crazy doing it. She buys all the necessary equipment to change the oil of Serena’s car in the driveway of her home. She makes attempts to clean the kitchen on her day off so Serena can come home to a tidy house. She does all these things to show how much she cares, how much she loves Serena, how much she only wants her to have good things. 

Serena would prefer to take her car to a licensed mechanic, to pay someone to rotate the tires, as much because she doesn’t want oil stains in her driveway as it is because she worries about Bernie underneath her car. She’s told Bernie as much, leaving Bernie feeling chastened, nervous that she’s pushing too much, trying too hard. 

She’s scrubbing the kitchen floor, on her hands and knees, because she saw a particularly resistant patch of tomato sauce near the cupboards by the sink, and is determined to get the tiled floor looking pristine by the time Serena comes home. But Serena leaves work early, eager to get to her home, to get to Bernie. 

When Bernie hears the door open, she sits up, her back stiff and protesting the movement. Serena stops short in the kitchen and Bernie thinks she makes quite a sight, warm and slightly sweaty, her hair sticking to the nape of her neck. The kitchen smells of ammonia and bleach and Bernie has large yellow gloves on her hands, and the sink is filled with a toxic cleaning solution that she’s periodically dipped her rag into. Serena looks exasperated, like all she wanted was a quiet afternoon with Bernie and instead she’s confronted with Bernie trying to do something completely unnecessary. Bernie tries to smile up at Serena, to coax her into smiling back. She wipes at her forehead with her wrist, careful to keep the bleach from her skin. Serena asks why Bernie is always doing things like this, a tinge of annoyance to her voice, and all Bernie can say, unbidden and unplanned is, “Because I love you.”

Bernie can see Serena fighting with herself, knows Serena is doing her best not to react to this proclamation, the first time she’s heard it from Bernie’s lips. Bernie just hopes Serena knows it’s true from the millions of gestures, the thousands of tiny, thoughtful gifts, a code for those three words since the very first survival kit she left on Serena’s desk all those months ago. Serena stands in the doorframe of the kitchen, her eyes teary, but her mouth pressed tightly closed and Bernie thinks she’s afraid of saying something that will scare her off, make her embarrassed that she’s said the words aloud. So she stands up, pulls off the gloves and leaves them on the floor. She pulls Serena into her arms, kisses her on the mouth, slides her tongue right inside Serena’s lips, holds Serena to her, close and happy.

 


	14. 'cause i was feeling down, now i'm feeling better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whoops it's another update. hope you don't get sick of me.
> 
>  
> 
> _anonymous asked for: Five Times Bernie Fished For Affection From Serena And Was Rewarded (or something like that)_
> 
>  
> 
> this isn't...exactly that. but it's five times bernie needs serena to help her take some stress away? anyway, they love each other. they like to bone. i do not make the rules. this is maybe not safe for reading at work. idk what you do for work though. no assumptions.

o1.

Bernie comes over to Serena’s after work, her posture screaming how tired she is, her clothes wrinkled as if they, too, can no longer hold themselves together. It’s been a long day, Serena offered to cook dinner, and it’s a much better offer than eating reheated pizza from her fridge in her sparse apartment. Bernie lets herself in using the key Serena gave her, she hangs her coat on the hook, right next to Serena’s, slides her shoes off and tries to line them up as neatly as she can with her feet, not wanting to bend over, not yet.

“I’m in the kitchen,” Serena calls, and Bernie can smell the pasta sauce cooking all the way from the entryway. Jason is out with Alan, their weekly night together to give Serena a bit of a breather, and Bernie knows it will just be the two of them, warms to the thought. It’s not that she minds Jason, far from it, she just appreciates the time she gets alone with Serena. “There’s wine on the table for you,” Serena says without turning around as Bernie enters the kitchen. Bernie has long since stopped wondering how Serena knows when she enters and exits a room, thinks it’s some kind of sixth sense they’ve developed about each other. She, too, finds herself with a heightened awareness of Serena’s location. Bernie picks up the wine glass gratefully, sits on the stool at the high table against the wall.

“Anything I can do to help?” she asks, though she knows Serena won’t give her any tasks to do, thinks she’ll wash dishes after the meal to make up for it. Serena just laughs, a small chuckle, because she knows Bernie is only offering to be polite.

“Just sit there and stay out of the way,” Serena says, flicking at Bernie with the towel she always keeps over her shoulder while she’s cooking, her eyes bright and happy, just content to have Bernie there in the room with her.

Serena’s food is lovely, it always is. She’s told Bernie that cooking is something that came naturally to her, the order and procedure so analogous to surgery that she picked it up easily as a way to take study breaks, relax after exams. Bernie spools spaghetti around her fork, takes a mouthful that’s far too large, gets sauce on her cheek. “Long day?” Serena asks, though she knows the answer.

“Too many failures,” Bernie says. She dislikes failure, dislikes not being able to solve every problem her patients come in with. It’s a difficult outlook to have, when her specialty is trauma, but it’s a quality that makes her push, drives her to be one of the best trauma surgeons in the country, helps her save almost everyone. She takes the losses hard, harder now that she spends more time with patients, now that she has to worry about patient care and gets to know the people behind the case files.

Serena reaches out, brushes her fingers against Bernie’s hand where it’s sitting against the base of her wine glass. She doesn’t press Bernie, doesn’t make her talk about things until she’s ready, is happy to wait it out.

“I don’t want to think about it anymore,” Bernie says, pushing her plate away, downing the rest of her wine, dislodging Serena’s hand. Serena stands, takes the empty plates to the sink, and comes back to the dining room table, holds her hand out to Bernie.

“Let me help you think about something else,” she says, and pulls Bernie up, leads her to the bedroom. Bernie has never been good at asking for help, never been good at asking for affection, but Serena happens to be keyed to Bernie’s frequency, always aware when that’s what Bernie wants.

The bedroom is dimly lit, just the bedside lamp lit, the sun setting behind the drawn shades. Serena slowly undresses Bernie, slides the buttons of her top open with careful precision. She slides it off her shoulders, loosens the clasp on her jeans, lets Bernie shimmy out of them, watches Bernie unhook her bra and drop it on the floor. Serena sits on the bed, Bernie standing in front of her, and kisses Bernie’s navel, her hands roaming up and down Bernie’s sides, her smooth skin an endless source of fascination. Serena places open-mouthed kisses down Bernie’s stomach, pausing to move aside her knickers, bravely kisses right at the apex of Bernie’s thighs, noses into the coarse hair, already a little damp.

Bernie pushes Serena back on the bed, lands on top of her, holds her wrists above her head, and Serena’s mouth falls open, her lips damp, her tongue flicking out involuntarily as she watches Bernie above her, her eyes dark. Serena pulls one of her hands from Bernie’s grasp, slides it between them, slips two fingers inside Bernie, who gasps at the sensation, ruts slightly into her hand, pushing for more, aching for more. And Serena obliges, another finger entering Bernie, her thumb toying at her entrance. Bernie gasps as Serena quirks her fingers, bending them, manipulating Bernie into a frenzy. It’s all Bernie can do to stop herself from losing her balance and pitching forward onto the bed. Serena’s smiling that sultry smile that tells Bernie she knows exactly what she’s doing. She pulls Bernie down, kisses her roughly, tongues at her earlobe, sucks it into her mouth and Bernie feels it all too much, lets her moans get swallowed into Serena’s mouth.

“Stay,” Serena whispers, after Bernie has collapsed on top of her, Bernie’s naked body warm and sticky and sweaty, a living, breathing blanket. Bernie murmurs her acquiescence, rolls over onto her back, brushes her hair back from her face with her hands, says something about freshening up, goes into the bathroom. She scrubs at her face, the cold water from the tap helping cool her heated skin. She looks at herself in the mirror, already feels a little more whole than she felt when she arrived. She wets a toothbrush, spreads the green paste across the bristles, pops it in her mouth, uses the toilet while she brushes with one hand. Serena comes in after she’s flushed the toilet, just looks at Bernie with a bemused expression on her face.

“You’re using my toothbrush.” Serena isn’t mad, but she seems a little surprised. The handle of Serena’s pink toothbrush is sticking out of Bernie’s mouth, the toothpaste foamed at her lips. Bernie looks at Serena in the mirror of the bathroom, takes in her face, clean of makeup, her hair lightly tousled from changing into her pajamas. She leans forward and spits into the sink, turns on the tap and washes it down the drain.

“Forgot mine,” Bernie says, rinses out her mouth before turning around to face Serena, leaning back against the sink. Serena moves into the bathroom, stands with her legs wide, Bernie’s caught between hers. She leans in to kiss Bernie, framing Bernie’s face in her hands, her thumbs rubbing against Bernie’s cheeks.

“Minty fresh,” Serena says when she pulls away, but Bernie doesn’t let her get far, grabs Serena by the waist and reels her back in, her hands pressing into the soft flesh at Serena’s midsection. Serena moans into Bernie’s mouth, her tongue following the noise, flicking against Bernie’s teeth. Bernie pulls away a little, her mouth begins to travel, finding the pulse point on Serena’s neck, nipping at it slightly. She noses the collar of Serena’s shirt aside, drops a kiss on Serena’s shoulder, then nuzzles back into the crook of Serena’s neck, her hands coming up under the hem of her shirt. Serena lets herself be spun around, lifted against the sink. Her legs come around Bernie’s waist, her feet hooking just below Bernie’s rear end, her arms draped over Bernie’s shoulders, slightly taller now, looking down into Bernie’s face, relaxed and happy, an expression she wears more and more.

“Glad you decided the spend the night?” she asks, touching her forehead to Bernie’s. Bernie doesn’t say anything, just kisses Serena, slow and deep and long.

 

o2.

Bernie likes when she and Serena work the late night shift together. It doesn’t happen very often, scheduling doesn’t usually allow for the two co-leads of AAU to work the late hours when there isn’t as much that needs to be done. They do routine checks on patients, working in the opposite direction of each other, meeting in the middle. They sit in their office with the door only slightly open, to listen for any disruptions, and work on paperwork.

Serena knows Bernie has had a bad day, has fought with Ric and butted heads with Guy and with Jac. One patient came in with such severe injuries, which meant she had to interact with other wards, and Bernie likes it best when she can make calls, do surgeries, without input from anyone but Serena, who often offers her opinion whether Bernie wants it or not.

This kind of day is what makes Bernie doubt her decision to stay, to be a civilian. She keeps looking up at Serena as they sign off on charts, trying to telegraph her need for reassurance, for kindness, without having to actually say the words.

Serena sighs after a bit. “I can see you looking at me. Am I just too beautiful that you can’t keep your eyes on your work?” She meets Bernie’s gaze, sees her rapidly reddening face.

“No -,” Bernie shakes her head, then stops, as she realizes how that answer might be taken. “Is it a better answer if I say yes?” She’s never had a talent for compliments, they don’t drip easily from her lips. Her flirting is much more lingering touches, long looks, leaving gifts on Serena’s desk.

“It’s an acceptable answer,” Serena says primly, she does so love to tease Bernie. “But what’s got you all unfocused?” Bernie twists her lips slightly, unsure of how to phrase what it is that’s eating at her, what it is that she wants from Serena. She sets down her pen, leans back in her chair, folds her hands in her lap.

“Do you ever feel like you don’t belong?” Bernie asks, because she isn’t sure what else to say, how to get to the root of the matter, that sometimes she chafes against the expectations of the hospital, that sometimes she isn’t quite as settled as she might wish. Serena pushes the paper away, gets up and comes around to Bernie’s side of the desk, leans against it, her hands pressed into the tabletop. Bernie isn’t looking at her, is staring at her hands instead, and Serena leans forward, touches Bernie’s chin with two fingers, soft and light, and lifts her face up. “What’s wrong?” she asks, and Bernie gives her that half smile she has when she knows that Serena won’t let something go. Serena moves so she’s more sitting on the desk than leaning against it, pulls Bernie’s chair in with her feet, and grasps her hands, holds them in her lap, toys with her fingers.

“Sometimes - sometimes I miss the RAMC. I miss leading.” Bernie slides her hand against Serena’s, clasps their fingers together, her rough skin against Serena’s smooth palms. “Not that I don’t love co-leading with you, mind you. It’s not that.” She gives Serena a smile, a proper one, squeezes their joined hands.

“That’s understandable,” Serena says, always knowing the thing to say, always able to set Bernie at ease. “It was so much of your life for so long. It’s hard to teach an old dog new tricks.”

Bernie smiles more widely at that, her teeth almost visible. “Who are you calling old?” she asks, knowing Serena set her up for that joke, can see the smirk playing around her face, the left eyebrow raised in good humor.

“You know we’re the same age, darling. Now. How can I help you?” Bernie makes eye contact with Serena properly, cocks her head, raises an eyebrow of her own.

“It’s quiet out there,” she says, and Serena grins, her eyes lit up with promise, her cheeks bright, the lines on either side of her mouth creased deeply with her happiness. She moves forward, drops herself onto Bernie’s lap, straddling the chair, the armrests making the position awkward, but she’s been in more uncomfortable situations for far less. Her hands go to Bernie’s trousers, her mouth to Bernie’s neck. Bernie likes when Serena feels comfortable enough to take control, is aroused by the fact that they’re doing this at the hospital, in their office. They are so fastidious about keeping things professional, keeping their relationship outside of the hospital. It’s not often Bernie can convince Serena to engage in any sort of flirtatious behavior, let alone getting Serena’s fingers inside her knickers.

Bernie keeps herself busy too, trails her fingers underneath Serena’s vest, is pleased to find that she’s wearing a bra with a front clasp, starts toying with Serena’s nipples, tweaking her fingers as Serena teases at Bernie’s entrance.

They’re quiet and fast and it’s hardly romantic, but it is nice - more than nice. It feels a little illicit, a little steamy, a little exciting, and Bernie bites into Serena’s neck to keep the noise of her orgasm from reverberating around AAU. She laves the already forming bruise with her tongue, keeps palming at Serena’s breasts, so sensitive and alive under Bernie’s ministrations. Serena rubs against Bernie’s thigh, enjoying the friction, is happy enough to let Bernie return the favor when they’re at home in bed.

“We’ll figure something out, find some way to give you more autonomy,” Serena says as they’re straightening themselves, patting down hair, buttoning up their clothes. “Not carte blanche, mind you, but just something to keep you from having to run around getting permission for every little thing. You’ve earned the trust and respect of the hospital administration by this point.” The way Serena says it, Bernie believes her, knows that Serena will do everything in her power to make it happen. “Now finish that paperwork, and stop distracting me.” Her words are sharp but her tone is soft, and she pulls Bernie’s scrub top a little straighter, a fond pat to her shoulder before moving back to her desk.

 

o3.

It’s Bernie’s birthday, one of the first she’s been home for in years. She doesn’t quite know how she wants to celebrate it. It’s Serena who suggests that she invites her children to the house for the weekend, to have some sort of cobbled together family dinner, a day out with her kids after. Bernie is on good enough terms with Charlotte and Cameron, they’ve met Serena, they like Jason. When the dust after the divorce settled, when Cameron started spending time at Holby, Bernie was able to rehabilitate her image, able to have a chance to talk with her children, to mend fences.

They meet, for breakfast usually, once a month. What started out as a perfunctory forty-five minute meal has now grown to be a two-hour event, sometimes spilling into the afternoon. Bernie doesn’t try to be their mother, only offers advice when asked. Instead she just tries to be there for them, in any way they want her. That usually means she pays for breakfast, sometimes pays for entrance to a museum exhibit that sounds interesting if Cam and Charlotte are up for it afterwards. It also means they text her about their significant others, about problems at work. She accepts this all, is better at texting now than Serena, her thumbs easily typing out messages back to her children with ease and speed. She even uses emojis, when the mood strikes her.

So she invites Cam and Charlotte into her home for two nights, a whole weekend, the longest extended time they’ll be spending together since before she left the RAMC. They accept the invitation, using the group text Cam set up on one of their first breakfasts out, just a wolf emoji as the name. Bernie likes it, likes that they’re playing up the Wolfe part of their lineage.

When the weekend actually arrives, Bernie is a ball of nervous energy, can’t sit still no matter how much Serena implores her too. She speeds back and forth from the living room to the kitchen, trying to refill drinks she’s already topped off three times, offering to help Serena cook dinner, though she has absolutely no business acting as sous chef. It’s Jason who gets her to stop moving. “Sit and watch Countdown with me, Bernie,” he says, a request and a command all at once. Cam and Charlotte join in, Cam much better at words and Charlotte much better at maths. Bernie is hopeless at both, keeps looking around at the seated young adults, in disbelief that this should be her life. She loses horribly, barely even scoring double digits.

Dinner goes by easily, Serena taking some of the burden of hosting, her charm on full blast, joking and laughing with Bernie’s children as easily as if they were her own. She keeps topping off Bernie’s wine glass, trying to set Bernie at ease, to relax her in some way. There’s birthday cake, and they all sing to a blushing Bernie, Serena’s beautiful voice carrying the melody. Bernie blows out the candles, lets Serena slice into the cake and pass around slices, the icing smooth and creamy, softening in the summer heat.

“This was lovely, Serena,” Charlotte says, her eyes soft, the same way Bernie’s get when she’s very content. Both of Bernie’s children are quicker to talk, to compliment. They get it from Marcus’s side of the family, Bernie has said. The Wolfes aren’t known for their verbosity.

“Mmm, yes,” Cameron agrees, his mouth still full of cake, and Bernie sees Jason schooling his features, trying not to make a comment about talking with one’s mouth full. She pats Jason’s hand once, just lightly, to let him know she understands, she sees it too.

Bernie shows Charlotte the guest room, shows her the bathroom down the hall, cautions her not to move things around too much, that Jason is quite particular. “Yes, I’ve noticed, Mum,” she says, with a squeeze to Bernie’s arm. She’s more tactile than her mother, too. Charlotte kisses Bernie’s cheek and pushes her out of the loo, says she needs to brush her teeth in peace, says she’ll see Bernie in the morning.

Bernie troops downstairs to check on her son, making his bed on the couch. She asks for the fourth time if he has enough pillows, enough blankets. “Stop worrying,” he says. “Go to sleep. And happy birthday.” He is more like her than she thinks he even knows, but she lets herself kiss his forehead as he settles under the covers and reaches for the lamp over the sofa.

Bernie heads back upstairs, turning off the lights as she goes, as familiar with this house as she ever was in her home with Marcus. Serena is already in bed, a t-shirt on, the ceiling fan spinning slowly, the windows open a bit. Bernie goes about her nightly routine, washes her face, brushes her teeth, and slides under the covers, just a pair of boxers and a vest - she gets so warm at night, especially with Serena at her side, Serena who loves to be held, who loves to curl into Bernie’s side.

Serena can see how tense Bernie is, her neck tense as she listens for noises down the hall, murmurs to Serena that she wonders how her children are doing, if they’re falling asleep all right, if they enjoyed dinner. Serena kisses Bernie to stop her mouth, moves her tongue against Bernie’s, throws a leg over Bernie’s, pulls her body close.

“Charlotte is right down the hallway,” Bernie hisses as Serena slips her hand into Bernie’s pants, slides a finger inside, then another, with no preamble.

“And Cam is downstairs, and Jason is in his room, and you and I are here. Now that we’ve taken stock of where everyone is, may I continue?” Serena mouth is pressed against Bernie’s ear, her breath warm, her eyelashes fluttering against Bernie’s cheek. Her fingers twist, just so, and Bernie’s body goes taut, her back arches, and she nods, ever so slightly. And then Serena removes her hand, licks her fingers, watches Bernie’s eyes go dark at the sight of it. Her hands tickle a tantalizing trail down Bernie’s body, pulls her pajama bottoms down, moves her knickers aside. And then her breath, hot and heavy, expels into Bernie’s center, Bernie’s musky smell filling her nostrils.

She licks into Bernie, catching the wetness on her tongue, sucking and nipping, Bernie fisting her hands in the sheets, her back still arched, all senses on high alert, her whole body sensitive to every single one of Serena’s movements. Serena once explained that she _likes_ using her mouth, liked using it on Edward, likes using it on Bernie. It never feels like a favor, rather it’s a way to excite herself. She’d been an eager student the first time she and Bernie fell into bed together, eager to learn, eager to use her mouth in a new way, bringing Bernie to the edge easily, excitedly.

Bernie turns her face into the pillow, muffles her moans as best she can, knows Serena is doing everything she can to make Bernie let go. Serena bites at Bernie’s inner thigh and Bernie’s legs twitch, almost closing around Serena’s head in an involuntary response, she’s taut as a bowstring, she knows she’ll have a bruise there, secretly loves to be marked by Serena’s mouth.

Another nip around Bernie’s clit, then Serena sucks it into her mouth once more, and Bernie explodes around her, a yelp escaping from her mouth, escaping from the confines of the pillow, and she immediately claps her hand over her mouth, even an orgasm unable to overrule her self-preservation instincts.

“Shh shh,” Serena whispers, moving back up Bernie’s body, pulling her in close, positioning herself as the big spoon, wrapping her hands around Bernie’s waist. “Think you’re relaxed enough to sleep?”

“I might need more convincing,” Bernie says, rubbing her backside against Serena, her bottom bare, the fabric of Serena’s pajamas creating extra friction against her already sensitive skin. She turns in Serena’s arms, kisses her deeply, tastes herself in Serena’s mouth as she flicks her tongue around. “But you’ve made a good start.”

 

o4.

Bernie’s back is sore, stiff, the kind of achiness that never quite goes away. She’s used to a certain level of constant discomfort from her back, a feeling that she wears like her skin. She doesn’t complain, doesn’t wince, until her back _really_ hurts. Then it’s a sharp stab, a spasm that she can’t control, and her face can’t mask the pain. Serena is always aware when it happens, her gaze snapping to Bernie’s face, an unspoken question on her lips.

When it happens at work, Bernie excuses herself to an on-call room for ten minutes, just to lay flat with an ice pack. She takes some pills to alleviate the pain, to lessen the swelling that is no doubt occurring. And Serena leaves her peace, trusts Bernie to know what she needs, trusts her to ask for help, doesn’t want to push. She’s had enough experience with patients that have chronic pain that she knows it’s sometimes harder to admit that there’s something wrong, that something is worse than it is any other day of the year.

When Bernie’s back twinges at home, the house they share, Serena is much more meddlesome, but welcomingly so. She helps Bernie up the stairs to their bedroom, slowly pulls Bernie’s shirt up, slides the bra off her thin frame, mindful of making Bernie move her body in any way that might further exacerbate the pain.

She gets lotion from her bedside table, the same she rubs on her hands every morning and every night. Bernie says she likes the smell, finds it comforting, soothing, makes her feel at peace. That sort of compliment, hard-won from Bernie, makes Serena color, because there’s always so much more lurking behind what she’s actually saying. It’s that Serena’s presence comforts and soothes Bernie, and the lotion is just physical manifestation of that, an odor that Bernie can detect and identify.

Serena thinks back to the first time Bernie let her rub her back, when they were still cautious allies, before anything ever happened, before she’d let herself realize what was lurking underneath her friendly affection for her coworker. Her hands are strong, sure of themselves. She gently rubs little circles into Bernie’s flesh, always in disbelief of her lithe frame, always happy to have the freedom to touch it as she pleases. Her thumbs work harder, pressing at the base of Bernie’s spine, her fingers lightly scratching a path down her shoulderblades. Bernie murmurs her pleasure, quiet but gratified, willing to let Serena care for her, a scenario that she can only imagine herself in with this woman. Marcus never expressed an interest in long afternoons spent in this sort of activity, no guarantee of sex at the end, but for Serena, it sometimes seems as if she’s just as happy to make Bernie boneless with this sort of pleasure as she is when she makes Bernie come with a yell, a smile on her face.

Serena doesn’t always stop when she’s massaged Bernie into a relaxed stupor. Sometimes she moves further, helps Bernie roll over, and takes her time, slowly letting her hand drift between Bernie’s thighs, her thumb and forefinger launching a tactical and efficient, yet thoroughly welcome massage. Bernie smiles a sleepy smile, knows she’s in for something nice, languorous, there’s no need for passion or heat, there’s just the quiet comfort of Serena knowing how to manipulate her body so that she won’t be in any pain when she gets lost in an orgasm.

Bernie never quite can get over how much Serena likes to touch her, how much joy it seems to give Serena when she can bring Bernie to the brink. Bernie is like a buffet and Serena is a starving woman, never showing any reticence when it comes to their bedroom (and out of bedroom) activities. She knows Serena doesn’t demand reciprocation, but as Serena’s hand dips between Bernie’s legs, she rolls to her side, cautious of her back, relieved to find it doesn’t complain at the movement. Serena is good at relaxing her back, knows how to get the muscles to quiet, get them back to their status quo - not perfect, but not bad enough to halt Bernie’s movement.

Bernie mirrors Serena’s movements, moving her fingers in tandem, they’re going at the same rhythm, both moving against each other’s hands, a back and forth that is in some ways as relaxing as the massage. There’s no race to completion, just the quiet fulfilment of being with each other, of touching each other, their breaths coming in pants. Bernie moves her face closer to Serena’s, noses against her cheek, nudges Serena’s lips towards her own.

“Thank you,” Bernie says, because Serena always seems to know what Bernie wants and needs and always seems to do everything in her power to make it a reality. It’s more than Bernie ever expected for herself, more than she once thought she ever deserved. But Serena is helping Bernie see that it’s never about what someone deserves, but about what someone accepts.

 

o5.

They’ve been together for a year, longer than Bernie was together with Marcus when he proposed, longer than Serena and Edward dated before he got her pregnant. Bernie feels like she wants to commit to Serena in some way, wants to let Serena know that she’s in this forever, for as long as Serena wants her.

Bernie thinks Serena probably knows this, probably senses it, doesn’t need Bernie to say the words, doesn’t expect it either. She’s said “I love you” to Bernie, says it almost every day, almost unthinkingly, like it’s nothing, so easy for her to say that it’s second nature to her now. Bernie has said it to Serena - twice. She can count how many times she’s said it, never wants it to lose the impact, never wants Serena to feel taken for granted. She knows that sometimes her taciturn nature makes Serena crazy, makes her laugh with impatience at how long it takes Bernie to get to the point, but knows that Serena loves her all the same.

“It’s a year,” Bernie says that morning, over coffee. Jason is off with Celia, and some of his other acquaintances, an overnight organized by Alan and some of the other aides. They’ve had the house to themselves, something too infrequent.

“What’s year?” Serena says as she swallows a bite of toast, insistent on making a full English breakfast in honor of their late start to the day, of their time alone, because Jason isn’t there to give his thesis on how much he dislikes all of the elements on the plate together.

Bernie feels silly, like maybe it’s pointless to track the days when they’re the age they are. She shrugs, pulls back a little. “Us,” she says simply, doesn’t want to embarrass herself any further. If Serena hasn’t noticed, then she’ll let it go, sees no reason to let this conversation go on.

“Is it?” Serena asks, still not looking at Bernie, her tone a studied innocence and it’s then that Bernie knows she’s being toyed with.

“You know it is,” she answers, not able to keep herself from smiling, flicks a bean at Serena - it hits her right in the nose, and Bernie congratulates herself for all those games of flicking paper into goals in primary school. The bean plops onto the table next to Serena’s hand, and she lets out a laugh, wipes at the sauce on her face. Bernie leans over and wipes it off with her thumb, licks off the residue, pulls the digit from her mouth with a satisfying plop and Serena’s eyes widen a little, go dark.

“Did you want to celebrate?” Serena asks, and Bernie thinks Serena has probably already planned something, has had something planned for at least a month. She shrugs, a smile flirting at her lips.

“If you wanted to,” is all she says and then feels a slice of tomato hit her hand, Serena’s aim much worse than Bernie’s. “Don’t waste good food!” With mock horror, she picks up the limp piece of red fruit, the juices dripping slightly, and pops it in her mouths, sucking at her fingers.

“We’ll need a shower after this breakfast,” Serena says, her eyebrows raised suggestively, her tone all creamy and alluring and Bernie almost wants to run up the stairs, shouting “last one in is a rotten egg!”

Instead, she finishes her bacon, swipes up remaining sauces and juice with her toast, and deposits her plate in the sink, carefully calm, studied movements, as if she’s not impatient as all get out to be in the shower with Serena, water sluicing off their backs.

She walks up the stairs, leaving Serena behind to finish her breakfast, only pausing when she’s reached the landing to call down, “Coming?” and is gratified to hear Serena’s chair scrape against the floor in her hurry to join Bernie.

The shower is large, steamy, but neither of them are acrobats, neither one up for the shower sex of their youth. Instead, Bernie just presses Serena against the cool tiles, their bodies together from stem to stern. She kisses Serena, open-mouthed, sloppy, can never get enough. Serena ruts against Bernie’s thigh, water sliding between them. Serena’s hand presses against the wall of the shower, leaving an imprint, her fingers leaving streaks as she slides them down, bringing her hands to Bernie’s waist, holding her close as she can.

“What are we going to do next year?” Serena asks, panting into Bernie’s ear, her hair flat and slick against her scalp, droplets forming on her eyelashes, the freckles dusting her nose visible under the spray.

“Uhm,” Bernie says, almost at a loss for words. “The bathtub?”

Serena laughs, her breasts jiggling, her thighs jiggling, her whole body alight with movement, and Bernie loves it, treasures it. Serena in unself-conscious in her nakedness, wet as a seal as she slides against Bernie’s body. She reaches for the loofah, soaps it up and scrubs at Bernie’s back, pays more attention to her front, the lather of the soap, the rough feeling of the loofah making Bernie gasp, making her thigh jostle, heightening the friction against Serena.

“I like that there’s going to be a next year,” Bernie says, a little more serious than she intended to be, but she means it. Serena pauses in her movements, drops the loofah to the floor of the shower and cups Bernie’s face in her hands, brushing back her too-long fringe with her thumb.

“As many years as you want,” she says, and kisses Bernie squarely on the mouth, just a quick press of her lips to Bernie’s. “As many as you want.”

 

 


	15. i'll fly away on a trip to your heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _[kitnkabootle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/kitnkabootle) asked for: "Post "keep it confined to theatre" talk. Raf is overwhelmed taking care of the Fletchlings and has a minor meltdown in front of Bernie and Serena who feel compelled to help by taking the kids for the weekend. Bonus points: It leads to the end of "confined to theatre" because ain't nobody got time for that._
> 
> here it is! whew! how do you write dialogue for children? who knows! please enjoy! i don't have anything clever or fun to say!

They kissed. On the floor of the operating theatre. Serena had looked at Bernie with her damp eyes and her quavering voice, and said whatever words she thought would make her smile.

Instead they were the words that would make Bernie lean in and kiss her. And Serena had found that she’d wanted nothing more than to kiss her back, which is precisely what she did. 

And then she acted like a muppet, all nerves and fidgeting and silly lies about Stepney because she didn’t know what it meant to kiss her best friend, her best friend who was gay. Then she decided it meant nothing more than that she was extremely lucky to have fallen in love (yes, love) with her best friend. And to have her best friend reciprocate that interest. But Bernie decided that Serena was uncomfortable, tried to be noble, tried to tell her that they should keep it all confined to theatre, and Serena pretended like that was fine, like she hadn’t been sitting, jittery and fluttery and excited, waiting to tell Bernie that she wanted to kiss her again, that she wanted to do more than kiss her. 

And now they’re avoiding each other.

Avoidance is surprisingly easy for Serena, despite sharing her ward, her office, a locker room, with Berenice Wolfe. She’s in charge of scheduling their shifts, makes it so she works opposite Bernie, mornings when Bernie is on evenings, picks up a few shifts in the emergency department as a brief respite, says it’s to offer some pointers on triage and diagnosing. She misses operating with Bernie, misses debriefing at the end of the hard days, misses walking to Albie’s together after work, their shoulders just brushing.

She leaves notes for Bernie, would say that they’re necessary missives to let her co-lead know what’s gone on in her absence, but the same thing can be accomplished from looking at charts, logging into the hospital’s system. Serena writes out detailed reports, in her fine, neat penmanship, from how a patient reacts to morphine to Morven’s mood that day. Bernie doesn’t reciprocate, not really, but sometimes when Serena comes in to work, there’s a fresh cup of coffee, a post-it that says “have a good day.” Serena tries to tell herself it’s easier this way.

There’s a day, though, where no amount of scheduling wizardry can keep them apart, and Serena finds herself sharing an office with Bernie for the first time in quite a while. They smile shyly at one another, but don’t say much. Serena doesn’t know how to close this yawning gap between them, wishes they could go back to how they were before. There’s a knock on their door, Morven pokes her head in to say that she thinks Raf is having a hard time of it today, that she’s had to check his orders four times now, he’s been fumbling on the correct dosages.

Bernie slants a glance at Serena - Fletch is still on the ward and Raf is juggling four children. Serena thinks Bernie is trying to hold back, knows that she can be protective of her ward, of her family, that she gets a bit defensive when Bernie tries to take the lead. She knows it’s not, perhaps, the best way to approach the situation, but she can’t help herself, she loves this little family she’s cobbled together, is always cautious of interlopers, even when when the interloper is Bernie Wolfe. Maybe especially so, even more cautious to let Bernie into every single facet of her life.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, bring him into the office if it seems like there’s a need and we can sort it out,” Serena says, and tries to ignore the flush of Bernie’s face upon her use of the word ‘we.’ Tries not to think about all the ways in which she’s imagined using the word to describe herself and Bernie Wolfe. 

It only takes an hour before Serena clamps an arm around Raf’s shoulders and guides him to the office, closes the door. He stands, awkwardly, with both Serena and Bernie looking at him and then his face falls. “I’m at my wit’s end,” he admits. “Four kids and no help and Fletch still recovering.” Serena reaches out, pats his arm. 

It’s Bernie who speaks first, not as good at the comforting gestures. “How can we help? Do you need your schedule rearranged? Some time off?” Serena stops herself from rolling her eyes at how Bernie’s misread the situation.

“How about some time off from the kids?” Serena suggests gently, because that’s the real problem, that Raf hasn’t had time to himself. “Let me take them for the weekend, starting tonight. Or at least Evie, Mikey and Ella. My house is hardly toddler-proof, I’m sorry to say.”

“Just you and all three of them? What about Jason?” Raf looks like he might faint with relief, but still leery of handing over this responsibility, even to Serena Campbell.

“I’ll enlist the help of the Major. We both have the weekend off, as you know, Ric’s set to be checking on the ward. And Jason was set to spend time with Alan, so he won’t be around to mind the noise and disruption. Not, of course, that this is a disruption.” Bernie’s eyes practically bulge out of her skull, but she keeps silent, can’t believe that Serena’s just volunteered her for a weekend baby-sitting. Together, no less.

Serena can’t quite believe it either, but the words came out of her mouth before she could stop them. She can almost feel Bernie’s anxiety radiating off of her, wonders if it’s a mistake to spend an entire weekend with her. Serena just wants her friend back, at the end of the day, and maybe having three rambunctious children around as a buffer is the way to work back towards what they had before they kissed.

Raf eventually acquiesces, agrees to a weekend free of children, says he’ll bring them over after work. He leaves and Bernie and Serena are left alone, Bernie staring at Serena with her mouth slightly open. “Oh, close your mouth, Ms. Wolfe, it’s not as if you had plans for the weekend anyway,” Serena says, her tone a hair harsher than she means it to be, but Bernie snaps her jaw closed, presses her lips together. “Why don’t you head to your flat, pack a bag, and I’ll pick you up on my way home?”

“Of course, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie says, but there’s a bit of humor to her tone, her eyes dancing ever so slightly and Serena thinks they’ll be all right. Bernie logs off, shuts down her computer, gathers her things, throws away the three coffee cups she’s accumulated throughout the day, brushes the crumbs from her lunch of Pulses pastry to the floor. She does try to tidy, for Serena’s sake, but it’s never been her strong suit.

Bernie is lounging against the wall of her building when Serena pulls up, her things in a small knapsack that looks like it spent as much time in the RAMC as Bernie. She shoulders it easily when she sees Serena’s car, walks to the passenger side, slides into the seat easily. “Right,” she says. “No turning back now.”

“Second thoughts, Bernie?” Serena asks, turning the wheel, heading back to the main road. She spares a small smile for her passenger before looking back at the road.

“Hard to have second thoughts about an idea that wasn’t mine in the first place,” Bernie ripostes and Serena laughs properly at that. “I wasn’t much of a mum when my kids were small, I’m hardly the best partner in this endeavor.” Her voice is a little quieter, and Serena chastises herself slightly, for not thinking that this might be hard for Bernie, so focused was she on spending time with her.

“We’ll muddle through, I’m sure. It’s just two days, really. We can’t do too much damage in that time.” Serena’s voice is warm, comforting, and she reaches out a hand to lightly squeeze Bernie’s thigh, the kind of touch that she would’ve done without thinking before they kissed, before they decided (Bernie decided) to ignore their chemistry. Now it’s weighted and awkward, and she pulls back her hand quickly, doesn’t want to make Bernie uncomfortable.

They make up the spare room together, each taking a side of the bed, tucking in the sheets, making sure the duvet is even on top and bottom, fluffing pillows. It’s horribly domestic, and Serena has to stop herself from imagining a world in which she and Bernie make up the bed in a room they share.

Raf comes by with all the kids in tow. They know Serena, have been to her house before, but Bernie is an unknown quantity and they hang back a little, crowd around Raf. “Ah, she’s all right. Looks much scarier than she is,” he says, nudging Ella forward. 

“Such a crowd of nervous Nellies!” Serena says, and that gets a smile from Evie, who leads the way into the living room. When the three children have disappeared around the corner, Serena leans in and pats Raf’s shoulder. “They’ll be all right, Raf. Enjoy your time, and don’t spare us a second thought.

Raf looks like his eyes are getting watery and Bernie fidgets, moving her weight back and forth between her feet. There’s no escape for her - either be confronted with an emotional display she’s not comfortable with or interact with children she doesn’t know. It’s a nightmarish start to the weekend. 

When Raf leaves, the consensus is to order in pizza for dinner, pepperoni and extra cheese. They all stare at Bernie in horror at her suggestion of pineapple and she holds up her hands in mock surrender, says she’s fine with whatever the majority wants. “Pineapples don’t belong on pizzas,” Mikey proclaims, and it’s the first thing he’s said that’s directed towards Bernie, which feels like progress. 

They eat in the living room, and Serena lets Ella pick out a movie, some animated film with foxes and rabbits and she’s sure it’s very lovely but all Serena can really think about is the fact that she and Bernie are sharing a blanket on her couch. They aren’t touching, not at all, but the mere fact of sitting together, so close, felt impossible only hours earlier. 

“Why is Ms. Wolfe here?” Evie asks around a mouthful of pizza. 

“Well that’s a nice question for a generous woman who’s volunteered her weekend to help me entertain some ungrateful children!” Serena says, and Evie quiets, continues eating her pizza in silence.

“You can call me Bernie,” Bernie says, a little unhelpfully, because she can’t explain why she’s here either, but is starting to feel grateful that she was allowed in all the same.

The movie ends and it’s late enough that it’s time for bed. Bernie suggests, surprising even herself, that they build a blanket fort to sleep in. Mikey and Ella quickly agree, start grabbing all the blankets and pillows they can find. Chairs from the dining room get pulled into the mix, and Serena’s living room is transformed into a messy but cozy tent, the two younger Fletchers chattering excitedly from beneath the cloth roof. Evie’s excused herself to the guest room, says she’s too old for forts, a statement that is met with an eyeroll from her brother. 

“Is there anything in my life you won’t make a mess of, Ms. Wolfe?” Serena asks as they stand outside the fort, her hands on her hips, but her eyes are sparkling, her mouth smiling and Bernie just shrugs, excuses herself to get ready for bed too. She brushes her teeth in the guest bathroom, splashes water on her face and by the time she returns to the living room, there’s yet another blanket and pillow on the couch, Bernie’s bed for the night. She can see Serena’s feet sticking out from underneath the fort and ducks down to let herself in through the blanket flat. Serena and Mikey are quietly talking about something as he’s rustling around with the blankets but upon catching sight of her, they both go silent.

“Did you ever spend the night in a tent, Bernie?” Mikey asks, when he’s settled under blankets, his younger sister already falling asleep. He’s stalling for time, doesn’t want the lights to be turned out just yet, wants to see how far he can push the limits of his weekend caregivers. 

“Quite a few. In the desert. When I was in the army.” Bernie smirks confidently at that, knows she’s got Mikey’s attention, thinks she’s got a little of his respect now too. 

“Whoa,” he says. 

“Whoa,” Bernie agrees, nodding her head.

“And she’ll tell you stories in the morning if you go to sleep right now!” Serena says, sliding to a sitting position. Bernie smiles at her, and says her good nights, starts to settle on the sofa, laying on her side, one arm pillowed under her head. 

“You’re sure you’re fine down here?” Serena asks when she’s emerged from the fort and Bernie nods up at her. “Thank you,” Serena says, her eyes soft and it looks like she’s about to say something else, but she goes upstairs instead, turning out lights as she goes.

*

Everyone wakes up early, Serena from the anxiety of hosting, and the rest due to nerves about spending the night in an unfamiliar face. Bernie offers to make pancakes, a suggestion that is met with a disbelieving laugh from Serena. “I was planning French toast, if that’s all right,” she says, and Bernie shrugs, nods. She just wants to pull her weight.

The blanket fort gets disassembled as chairs are pulled back into the dining room, and they make a motley crew as they quietly sip at their juice and cut into their food. The easiness of last night as dissipated in the cold morning light and Bernie wishes she had any facility in this area, wants to make this easier. Instead she spills her juice as she’s reaching for the bowl of confectioner’s sugar, and everyone leaps up from the table to avoid the liquid.

Bernie takes on clean-up from breakfast, lets the kids and Serena have time together - she’s obviously their preferred adult, and Bernie doesn’t blame them. While she washes dishes and mops up any leftover juice, it’s decided that they’ll visit Holby Zoo, a good way to occupy the day. They all pile into Serena’s car, Mikey, Evie and Ella squished in the back together, Bernie in the front, fiddling with the radio, trying to accommodate the music requests from the back seat.

When they get to the zoo, it becomes apparent that Ella’s decided Bernie is good enough, grips Bernie’s fingers in her small hand, leads her towards the penguins, which are, as she states loudly, her very favorite animal in the whole wide world.

“What’s your favorite animal, Bernie?” Mikey asks when they’re eating lunch in the restaurant at the zoo, hot dogs and sandwiches, and the kind of food Serena knows Raf and Fletch wouldn’t be impressed with. 

“Oh, a giraffe, I think,” she says after thinking for a moment.

“How very fitting,” Serena comments, wiping her mouth with a paper napkin and Bernie looks at her, blinks. “Just. Tall, from a warm climate. Gangly elegance.” She says more than she means to, her face flushing slightly, and Bernie’s only response is an answering blush. She twists slightly in her chair, stretches, her back stiff and sore, a night on the couch not the best idea for it.

“What’s wrong?” Serena asks, noting the slightly pained look flit across Bernie’s face. 

“Mm, nothing, just a bit of back pain. It’s been a long time since I’ve had to kip on a couch,” Bernie says, ignores the nights when her marriage was falling apart and she was falling asleep in the living room. 

“Just sleep upstairs with Serena,” Mikey says, his mouth full. Bernie almost chokes on a sip of water, tries to keep her composure. Serena’s lips tighten, her eyes darken, tries to act like that’s not something she would enjoy very much. Mikey looks between the two of them, doesn’t know what he’s said to cause their reactions, shrugs and goes back to his food, shoving crisps in his mouth.

Everyone is tired when they get home from the zoo, the combination of the excitement about the animals and walking around in the sun for a few hours. “Mikey’s turn to pick a movie,” Serena says, and while he chooses one, she goes into the kitchen to make cottage pie for dinner, Bernie dutifully following behind. 

“You can sleep in my room, if you need,” Serena says, picking up the thread of conversation from the afternoon as easily as if it had just been said moments ago. Bernie looks at Serena, tries to think of a reason not to, tries to come up with a good excuse, but behind it all, she can’t help but think that this is what she wants, and if Serena’s offering, who is she to turn it down.  

After dinner, during which Mikey peppers Bernie with questions about the army and how many people she’s killed and if she’s ever set off a bomb, Evie excuses herself to the guest room again, and Serena lets her have the privacy, remembers back to being twelve and feeling everything all at once. Mikey and Ella have staked out the couch for sleeping, each tucked under a blanket, their feet almost touching in the middle of the sofa, pillows under their heads.  

“We’re just upstairs if you need us,” Serena says, kissing Ella’s forehead, before moving to the other end of the couch to brush Mikey’s hair back. He twists his face away, doesn’t want the affection, so Serena leaves it, shuts off the lamp and gestures for Bernie to come upstairs with her. “Go on into my room, end of the hall. I’m just going to talk to Evie for a moment.” Bernie follows the order mutely and Serena knocks gently on the guest room door, waits for Evie to admit her. 

The room is bathed in a soft yellow glow from the bedside lamp. Evie’s curled up on her side, and her face is sad. Serena sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping slightly, and reaches out to rub Evie’s feet through the covers. “Everything all right?” she asks, knowing that the answer won’t be ‘yes’ for a long time. 

“I miss my mum,” Evie says, swipes at her face with the back of her hand. “Being here, it’s like too much. You make me think of her.” Serena squeezes Evie’s toes, slides a little further up the bed.

“It’s okay to miss her, darling,” Serena says, brushes her thumb at Evie’s cheek, wipes the tears away. “I miss my mum too, every day.” She wants so much to tell Evie that things will sort themselves out, that grief is a straight line with an end point, but knows it isn’t true, knows that Evie has never been one for platitudes and rehearsed lines. “I’m sorry being here is hard.” That much is true and real.

“It’s the good kind of hard, I think,” Evie says. “Like, it’s making me think of the good stuff, you know?” Serena smiles, finds her own eyes watering. 

 “I know.” She kisses Evie’s forehead, pats her hair, long and silky, free from its usual ponytail. “Sleep tight, and I’m just down the hall if you need anything.” She reaches out to turn out the lamp and gives one final pat to Evie’s blanket-covered form before leaving the darkened room.

Serena is quiet when she enters her own bedroom, stops when she sees Bernie standing awkwardly in the middle of the floor, her knapsack dangling from her hands. “Why not go into the en suite and brush your teeth, and change?” she suggests, taking pity on Bernie, thinks Bernie just needs to be told what to do in this situation. 

Bernie complies, comes out of the bathroom after a few minutes, wearing boxers and a faded and worn t-shirt. Serena gestures to the left side of the bed, encourages her to get comfortable while she goes about her own nightly routine. Bernie also follows this command, almost dream-like, can’t quite believe she’s being encouraged to get into the same bed that Serena Campbell will occupy in a matter of minutes.

Bernie can hear the toilet flush, hears the water from the sink run, then the sound of the bathroom door opening, the light flicking off, the bedroom going dark. She feels Serena slide into the bed, the mattress moving slightly. She turns to face Serena, just making out her pale features in the dark. Serena is on her side too, her face towards Bernie. But then she sighs, rolls on her back, head tilted up towards the ceiling. “What’s your mother like?” she asks after a few long moments of silence.

Bernie is silent, picking at some of the pilling fabric with her fingers. Serena wonders if it’s too personal, if, even after this weekend, they haven’t gained back the familiarity she’s been hoping for. “She’s good,” Bernie says finally. “We don’t really understand each other, but she’s good. Kind. Like you, a bit. Outgoing, life of the party, beautiful.” The last word comes out quiet, like Bernie didn’t mean to say it aloud. Serena doesn’t say anything to that, just feels the heat of her face, and rolls on her side away from Bernie.

*

Bernie wakes up with an arm flung over Serena’s waist, her forehead resting against the back of Serena’s neck. Serena, for her part, seems to have claimed one of Bernie’s legs between her own, and is resting her hand against Bernie’s arm. There’s no way to extricate herself without waking Serena, no way to pull back and pretend this didn’t happen, so Bernie has to settle for whispering Serena’s name, nudging her until her eyes open. 

“Is my bedroom going to have to be another place we confine things?” Serena asks a little sourly as she sits up, her hair a fluffy mess, some strands sticking straight up. She’s not fully awake, can’t censor herself. Bernie doesn’t answer, just gets out of bed quickly, practically runs to the bathroom to brush her teeth and get dressed. 

Breakfast is quieter, the kids seem a little more tired. “When’s Raf coming?” Mikey asks, and Serena looks at him knowingly, loves to see that he misses his erstwhile second parent. 

“Early this afternoon, I think. Not too much longer with us old ladies,” Serena says, rubbing Mikey’s shoulder as she clears the table. 

Bernie takes it upon herself to teach them poker, even allows Ella into her lap as she deals out cards to Mikey, Evie and Serena. Ella holds the cards and Bernie points to the ones she should discard and lets her find the pairs and the flushes. Serena locates a bag of pretzel sticks and they play with those as betting chips, Mikey amassing quite a large pile, sticking with a strategy of boldly bluffing almost every hand and Bernie and Serena letting him get away with it. 

Evie seems fairly content, likes shuffling the cards for each deal, and Serena thinks she must find the repetitive movement soothing, she feels the same way about it. 

Serena melts some chocolate when they’ve had their fill of poker, lets them dip the pretzels into the hot liquid, Ella staying firmly on Bernie’s lap, cautious of the heat, a little scared, until Bernie dips a stick into the chocolate for her. Serena’s heart melts slightly at Bernie acting so at ease with the small girl, wonders if some day Ella will feel about Bernie the way Evie feels about Serena, thinks this might be the start of that. 

Raf comes by as Serena is rinsing the chocolate from the pan, lets himself in the front door and is practically knocked over by the children in their haste to hug him. “Don’t take their reaction to you as a sign that we’ve tortured them,” Bernie says. “I think they’re just quite pleased to see you.”

 “She taught us poker, Raf. I won loads,” Mikey says. Raf looks at Bernie over Mikey’s head, a curious eyebrow raised and Bernie just shrugs. 

“I was teaching them about a potential alternate income source, should the need arise,” she says, her hands stuffed in her pockets. 

“She was in the army, did you know that? She once pulled a bullet out of a guy’s stomach using her bare hands when she was in the middle of the desert!” Mikey babbles in excitement as he heads towards Raf’s car, dragging his small suitcase behind him. Evie gives Serena a hug, breathes in her smell before letting go, and gives Bernie a small wave before following her brother. 

Ella is less inclined to leave her new friend, but Bernie hoists her up, ignoring the protest from her back. “You’re my best poker mate,” she says very seriously, at eye level with the small girl. “I don’t think I can play without you. I’ll come round some night and we can beat your brother, how does that sound?” Ella nods solemnly, and then hugs Bernie, her slightly sticking fingers meeting at Bernie’s neck, tangling in the ends of her hair. Raf looks at Serena, slightly disbelieving and it’s Serena’s turn to shrug. 

“These two soulmates made quite an impact on each other,” she says as Bernie tips Ella into Raf’s waiting arms. 

“Well, I’m glad you two had such fun playing happy families,” Raf says with a wink and offers his profuse thanks, which Serena waves off, practically pushing him out the door. She doesn’t look at Bernie as she turns the latch, doesn’t let herself think about being a part of Bernie’s family.

The kitchen is fairly clean but the rest of the first floor is in slight disarray, blankets and pillows tossed about. Bernie helps Serena fold up the blankets, their fingers brushing together as they make the edges meet, a practiced folding routine that seems so natural between the two of them. Bernie flushes at the contact of their skin, no matter how many times it happens, and Serena logs it away, tries her best not to think of it just now.

When everything is put right, Serena’s house back to the spic and span paradise that satisfies even Jason, there’s a bit of awkwardness as Bernie isn’t quite sure how to take her leave. “I’ll get out of your hair now. Thanks, uhm, for putting up with me for the weekend. I know it can’t have been easy.” She’s no fool, she knows there’s awkwardness between them still, and no amount of baby-sitting can truly fix that, she thinks. 

“It wasn’t a hardship at all. I’m sure you’re glad to be rid of  _ me _ and back to your own flat,” Serena says and then suddenly remembers she has to give Bernie a ride home, that she’d decided, for some reason, to give Bernie a lift on Friday evening. “Well. We’d best get into the car, don’t want to keep you from your solitude for too long.” Bernie looks like she’s about to protest, but then closes her mouth and follows Serena outside.

When they get to the front of Bernie’s building, there’s the strange awkwardness again, the unwillingness to leave each other. “Why not come upstairs?” Bernie asks after a bit of stilted silence. “You’ve treated me to food all weekend, I think I’ve got some leftovers I can heat up or some food I can cobble together.” Serena’s eyes widen at the invitation, she’s never seen the inside of Bernie’s flat. She doesn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, readily agrees, and follows Bernie inside, into the elevator.

The flat is perfunctory, neat in the way that suggests Bernie doesn’t have much in the way of possessions to clutter it up, but it’s a nice enough place to land at the end of the day. Serena is tempted to poke around, snoop through the rooms, and behind the closed doors leading to bedrooms and closets. 

Instead, she comes into the kitchen, stands behind Bernie, looks over her shoulder into the sparse refrigerator, bites back a question about how Bernie manages to live on nothing but white wine and takeaway leftovers. Bernie takes the pizza box off one of the lower shelves, turns before Serena can move away and suddenly their mouths are almost touching, faces millimeters apart. Bernie is flustered, drops the box on the floor, the pizza sliding out onto the tile.

“Let’s order in,” Serena suggests, doesn’t pull her face away. Bernie doesn’t say anything, doesn’t move either. They stand like that for what feels like an eternity, and then the buzzing of Serena’s phone gives them both a start. They nearly collide heads as they both bend down to pick up the discarded pizza, and again, their faces are close - so close.

“Sod the theatre,” Serena says, and kisses Bernie, her knees touching the floor, her hands going into Bernie’s hair, threading into those ridiculous waves. Bernie seems a little poleaxed, only for a moment, and then she responds, gently nips at Serena’s bottom lip, slides her tongue into Serena’s mouth.

“We always seem to do this on the floor,” Bernie says when she finally pulls back, resting on her heels. Serena mimics her posture, rubs her hands on her thighs. She can feel the smile stretching across her face, like her cheeks can’t even contain her joy. She is staring at her best friend, her best friend whose lips are pink and wet, slightly puffy, whose cheeks are flushed, whose breaths are coming out in soft pants, because of a kiss they just shared. It seems almost too good to be real.

“We could try it somewhere else,” Serena says, her eyes sparking, her eyebrow quirked. Bernie grins at that, knows Serena is baiting her, is up for the challenge. She stands, reaches her hand down to Serena, who grasps it, slides her hand against Bernie’s palm, doesn’t let go even after they’re standing face to face. Bernie leans in, kisses Serena, quick and light, just a brush of their lips, and opens her drawer of takeaway menus, dropping the floor-tainted food in the trash bin next to her refrigerator.

Food comes, and they eat on Bernie’s couch, Serena’s feet on the coffee table, Bernie sitting with her back against the armrest, her toes underneath Serena’s leg, so familiar and comfortable, it makes Serena’s heart beat wildly against her chest. They keep darting looks at each other, keep blushing and looking away, because they’ve finally decided to acknowledge what is between them, it seems. They’re finally going to let it out of the theatre.

Serena doesn’t want to break this easy peace, this domesticity, but she feels like she has to, has to make sure Bernie knows she’s serious about this. “One of our coworkers doesn’t have to be near the brink of death for you to kiss me again,” she says, as casually as she can. Bernie looks over the rim of her wine glass, notes Serena’s serious expression and sets it on the table, clasps her hands in her lap as she focuses her full attention on Serena. Serena wrangles her courage, her nerves, and tries to say the things she’s been thinking all these weeks. “I wasn’t uncomfortable, Bernie,” she says, and Bernie smiles.

“I did cotton on to that, yes,” Bernie says and Serena feels herself blushing again, thinks that spending time in this woman’s company is reducing her to a schoolgirl, tripping over her tongue. 

“I told Fletch I was a lesbian.” Bernie smiles at that, faintly, like she wants to make a smart remark, but she waits for Serena to continue. Serena picks up Bernie’s wine glass, her own emptied, and takes a sip, puts her lips right over the imprint from Bernie’s mouth, and she sees Bernie’s eyes darken, her tongue moisten her lips. “I just needed time to...to figure it out.”

“And what have you figured out?” Bernie doesn’t seem inclined to make this easy, and Serena rolls her eyes, puts down the wine glass, rests her free hand against Bernie’s ankle, her fingertips just underneath the cuff of her trousers, her nails lightly scraping against the soft, pale skin there. 

“That, infuriating though you are,” Serena punctuates this with a squeeze to Bernie’s ankle, “you’re the one I want to be with.” 

Bernie says nothing, just looks at Serena thoughtfully. “What if I ruin it?” Serena looks at Bernie with a blank expression. “Serena,” Bernie prods, nudging Serena’s thigh with her foot. Serena blinks, her eyes lasering into Bernie’s. 

“I’m sorry, are we just asking silly questions?” Serena asks, and slides her hand further up Bernie’s calf, reveling in the fact that she’s allowed to do it, allowed to touch Bernie wherever she pleases, that Bernie doesn’t seem to mind in the least. Bernie isn’t so easily placated, so Serena sets her food on the table and twists her body, moves up the couch, one knee pressed between Bernie and the couch, the other leg dangling off the side, her weight against her hands, leaning on the armrest behind Bernie’s head. Her nose is touching Bernie’s and she nuzzles them together, ever so slightly, and kisses Bernie, long and deep. Bernie’s hands come to Serena’s waist, holding her in place, holding her steady, and she’s kissing back, giving as good as she gets.

 “You might ruin it. I might ruin it. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t have this,” Serena says when they part, leaning her forehead against Bernie’s. She realizes her position, realizes that she and Bernie are almost horizontal on the couch. She leans back on her heels and pulls her shirt over her head without any trace of self-consciousness, straddling Bernie, wearing nothing but the lacy black bra she’d put on that morning with no thought in mind that it might be seen by one Berenice Wolfe. 

“Jesus, Serena,” Bernie breathes, her voice a sibilant hiss on Serena’s name, and her hands grapple at Serena’s waist, pulling her back down, rubbing up and down the fair, freckled skin of her back. Serena knows she has scars, knows Bernie has them too, thinks they’ll discover them together. She fusses with the buttons on Bernie’s top, her mouth hot against Bernie’s neck. She finds Bernie’s scar from the IED, runs her tongue along its length and Bernie gasps, cranes her head back, the long expanse of her neck a tantalizing display, and Serena can’t help but suck against the pulse point she finds there, thinks she might leave a mark, can’t find it within herself to care. 

Bernie shrugs off her top, pulls her arms out of the sleeve awkwardly, still pressed against the couch, anxious to get her hands back to Serena. She fiddles with the clasp of Serena’s bra with one hand, palms Serena’s breast through the silky fabric of the bra, and Serena feels the nipple harden against the material, thinks it’s been ages since she’s been so aroused.

Serena’s hand moves towards the clasp of Bernie’s trousers, infernally tight skinny jeans that almost seem unfair in the way they adhere to Bernie’s long legs. She’s a little nervous about this part, using her hands on Bernie. She doesn’t have much experience using her fingers on other people, apart from frank handjobs while she was married to Edward. She thinks about what she likes, the rhythm and pressure that she applies to get herself off, thinks that’s as good a starting place as any. 

Trousers, pants, bras, they all come off eventually, and Bernie and Serena press themselves together, naked skin to naked skin, all warm heat and smooth bodies. Serena is good at sex, prides herself on that ability, has good instincts, but finds herself with a stuttering start to taking care of Bernie, she feels like an imposter, that she’s faking, that her fingers don’t belong there, between Bernie’s thighs. 

She looks at Bernie, thinks her eyes must look a little wild, a little panicked, and she just hopes it doesn’t scare Bernie away. Bernie, as she almost does, understands what the look means, slides her hand down Serena’s arm, holds Serena’s hand, shows her what she likes, guides her to the places that make her moan, make her thighs twitch. And then Serena is off to the races, taking the places Bernie likes best and teasing at them before pulling away, swallowing Bernie’s complaints and pleas with kisses, until she’s almost as wet as Bernie is. And then she pushes her fingers into Bernie, hard, and Bernie comes with an undignified yelp, clutches at Serena, leaves indents from her fingernails in Serena’s back. 

“I’ll get better,” Serena promises and Bernie smiles, a lazy grin that stretches her wide mouth across her face and she leans up to kiss Serena, then kisses Serena’s bare chest, cups her breasts, noses in the valley between them. 

“You were very good,” she says, her voice muffled by Serena’s skin. Serena’s arms go around Bernie’s shoulders, holding them close, her head resting atop Bernie’s, and their bodies are pressed together, sticky and sweaty and warm and wet and Serena wonders if they’ve ruined this couch. 

*

“I heard you’ve introduced my children to the world of gambling,” Fletch says sternly as Bernie goes over his chart, standing at the foot of his bed. She flips the chart closed with a practiced flick of the wrist and slides it under her arm, taps the top of the sanitizer, rubs the gel into her hands. 

She levels her gaze at him, tries to gauge whether or not he’s serious, and then he breaks first, smiling at her. “Thanks for taking care of them, Ms. Wolfe,” he says with a wink, and Bernie ducks her head, unable to take the gratitude, and excuses herself. 

“Ella wants to know when you’ll be coming over for dinner,” Raf says, intercepting Bernie as she makes her way to the office. Bernie can see Serena watching them from the desk, she’s only pretending to look at the paperwork in front of her, she’s been staring at Bernie for the better part of five minutes. Bernie only knows because she glances up to smile at Serena every few moments, can’t help it, doesn’t really want to stop it. There’s something about looking across her ward, seeing her closest friend’s face light up as their eyes meet. It makes Bernie’s heart flip. 

“Tell my best girl that it’s up to her dads - that is, I mean, up to you and Fletch,” Bernie says, tucking a curl behind her ear and Raf laughs, says he’ll look at the calendar. 

“Best girl, Ms. Wolfe?” Serena says quietly, sidling up next to Bernie, leaning against the high counter of the desk, still feigning interest in the patient chart in front of her. Bernie mimics her posture, rests her elbows against the desk, turns to face Serena. 

“Mmm, well she’s the only one who’s extended an invitation for dinner,” Bernie says and that earns a smile from Serena, who is still acting as though she’s reading about a patient’s symptoms. 

“Well, if you’re free tonight, I might be persuaded to host,” Serena says, and bumps her shoulder against Bernie’s slightly before flipping the chart closed and sliding it into its spot on the rack. Because Serena can’t kiss Bernie in the middle of the workday on the floor of AAU, she settles for patting Bernie’s arm, her fingers lingering against Bernie’s warm skin, trailing against the fine hairs there as she pulls her hand back. “See you later?” She still gets that cautious hopeful tone to her voice, like she can’t believe it’s real, like she can’t believe Bernie is interested, that she keeps coming back. 

Bernie’s voice is low, a little rough, a hint of promise behind it all. “Count on it.”

 


	16. i see who you are with the lights out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ktlsyrtis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktlsyrtis) prompted: Bernie keeps stealing Serena's clothes
> 
> guess what - i asked for fluffy prompts and got almost two million of them! but here's one! it's very fluffy! enjoy!

There’s a flu epidemic in Holby, waiting rooms full up to the brim of people with sniffly noses and burning foreheads and queasy stomachs. There’s overflow brought up to AAU, a few beds spared for quick IVs and flu shots to help mitigate the insanity of the emergency department. And Bernie Wolfe, still new to the ward, finds herself with ruined clothes because one unfortunate patient loses her entire lunch on Bernie - before she’s been able to change into her work scrubs. 

“Well, there’s a nice welcome for you,” Serena says wryly, walking into the locker room just as Bernie is gingerly stripping off her soiled clothes. Bernie pulls a face, dropping her shirt to floor with a resounding  _ plop _ . Serena can’t help but laugh, knows it isn’t really funny, but also knows they’ve both experienced worse on the front lines of practicing medicine. She tries not to stare at Bernie’s pale skin, the moles dotting her back, one on her left breast, just above the cup of her bra. Bernie doesn’t seems to notice, or mind, the attention. Serena supposes it comes from years of changing in army bunks, in sports locker rooms before. 

“You always wear scrubs anyway, at least,” Serena says, trying to lighten Bernie’s mood, blushes slightly at the admission that she’s already familiar with Bernie’s penchant to wear scrubs rather than street clothes around the hospital. 

“Yes, but I have nothing to wear home now,” Bernie says, pulling the the teal scrub top over her head, mussing her hair even further. Serena doesn’t say it, but she thinks that color suits Bernie so much better, likes the way she looks in the scrubs that designate her as a member of AAU, a member of her team. Bernie shucks her trousers off, kicking them into the same pile as her shirt with a sigh. “I don’t like to wear scrubs home,” she offers as an explanation. She shrugs. “I like that separation of work and life outside of these walls,” she says. Serena thinks she wants to say more, but doesn’t push it. She understands how important it is to make those distinctions, though she knows she’s a bit of a workaholic, knows that her life as a consultant is intrinsically tied up in who she is as a person. 

She opens her locker, digs around a bit, and pulls out a simple black top, small buttons and a floppy collar - a little less structural and clean than Bernie’s normal aesthetic, a little wrinkly. “Here, you can borrow this. Sorry it’s a bit...musty. Just be grateful I didn’t stick you with my leopard print blouse,” she says, gesturing to her own top, one of her very favorites.

Bernie takes the black blouse with a smile. “I might’ve kept my vomit-stained shirt if that were the case,” she says with a soft chuckle, and Serena grins back, her eyes shining. They’re both holding onto the shirt, their fingers almost touching, and they linger on the moment, stretching it out like taffy, and then the locker room door bangs open and Serena lets her hand drop quickly as Bernie turns back into her locker and busies herself locating clean scrub bottoms. 

It’s a busy day, busy enough that Serena and Bernie barely see each other, and it’s not until they’re both back in the locker room at the end of their shifts that they have a chance to say more than a few words to each other. But words fly from her mind at the sight of Bernie buttoning up the black blouse over her black bra. It’s a little baggy on her, drapes to her waist, a little curtain for the black pants she has on and Serena has to force herself to look away, her cheeks burning. 

Bernie doesn’t seem to notice Serena’s distraction, still seems to have no compunction about baring her body. She’s saying something about a complicated surgery on the docket for the next day as she pulls on the black denims she’s managed to find in the bottom of her bag, sliding her long legs through the material one at a time and Serena finds herself staring from the corner of her eye. 

“Thanks, for this,” Bernie says, plucking at the top, tucking it in slightly at the waist, looking a little ridiculous and beautiful all at once. She runs a hand through her messy hair, pulls her fringe back. Her face looks tired, her posture slack. 

“Not a problem,” Serena says, her voice sounding overly loud, overly cheery, even to her own ears. “Can’t waste such a beautiful shirt on leftovers alone in your flat - come to Albie’s tonight.” It sounds more like a command than a request, but Bernie just nods, follows Serena out, lets her lead the way to the pub, even lets her order the drinks. 

That’s the last time Serena sees that shirt.

*

When Serena started working at Holby, she was given a set of standard issue scrubs, a light jacket embroidered with the hospital’s logo, and a zip-up hoodie. She doesn’t wear it often, only if she’s already in scrubs and feeling cold, or tired, or stressed, and in need of that sort of comfort. It’s usually draped over the back of her desk chair or hanging from the coatrack. The sort of thing she always has around and almost never uses, just likes knowing it’s there.

And then one morning, she comes in and Bernie’s got it on, zipped up to her chin, the strings tied in a bow and she bursts out laughing, because who on earth wears a hoodie like that, when they’re indoors and working at a computer. Bernie looks up at the sound, her forehead wrinkled in a confused frown. 

“Are you that cold?” Serena asks, gesturing at her get-up. Bernie looks down and looks back up at Serena with a shrug. Serena shakes her head fondly, hangs her coat up on the rack and turns on her computer, all a practiced routine. “That’s quite a nice bow you’ve done up there,” she says with a quirk of her mouth and Bernie’s hand goes to the strings of the hoodie self-consciously. It seems that she can’t quite tell if Serena is being malicious in her teasing or not. 

“It felt a bit brisk this morning,” she says finally, still fiddling with the ties. Serena wants to laugh again but thinks Bernie might be feeling a bit on edge about it all, so stops herself from saying anything that might offend.

“I’m glad it’s getting some use, is all. I’m surprised they didn’t give you one when you started,” Serena comments, sipping from her coffee, opening up her email, all more steps in her everyday rituals. 

“‘Welcome to the cash-strapped NHS,’” Bernie says, mimicking Serena’s tone and that gets a proper laugh out of Serena.

When Serena sees Bernie later that day, she’s still got the hoodie on, but the bow is untied, the zip undone. Instead she’s wrapped it around herself, holding the edges across her body. “Do I need to have a word with maintenance about the heat?” she asks and Bernie makes a face. 

“It’s a nice hoodie,” is all she says and Serena holds her hands up in mock surrender and backs away, doesn’t let herself think about how nice it is to see Bernie in her hoodie. 

From that day on, the sweatshirt is as good as Bernie’s. She wears it in the morning when she comes into work, while she does the necessary office work before she can head out to the floor. She wears it when she goes up to the roof for her chats with Dom. She wears it when she drinks a coffee outside, usually with Serena on the bench next to her. 

But Serena still takes it home every once in a while to wash it, using the same slightly floral detergent she uses on her own clothes, and she could swear that she sees Bernie sniffing it at least once, holding the fleecy inside to her nose, her eyes closed, her face soft and unguarded. 

She tells herself that Bernie must just like the scent of flowers, or that she’s perhaps still enjoying living in a world with frivolous detergents, that’s there’s nothing else to it. Serena doesn’t say anything, doesn’t bring it up, just lets herself feel happy that she’s given Bernie something, no matter how indefinable it is.

*

Bernie is over at Serena’s, eating a late dinner after a long day. Back to back surgeries and belligerent patients, and more budget cutting measures sent down from Henrik. Jason is with Alan, his weekly appointment to watch historical documentaries and spend the night away, set in place to give Serena the occasional breather. She’s always careful to say that she doesn’t need or require space from Jason, a statement he always receives with equanimity. “It’s good for me to have time with Alan,” he says, “and then you have an evening to drink your wine and eat something different.”

Serena is constantly surprised at how perceptive he is, how cognizant he is of the needs of others, even if he may not understand those needs in the slightest. She always gives him a hug before he goes, squeezes as much affection as she can in those moments, and Jason always lets her. 

She and Bernie eat quietly, spicy Thai curries in front of each of them. Bernie said she wanted something to put a little pep in her step after the day they’d had. Serena usually will do whatever Bernie suggests, knows Bernie never says things idly, and so she drove them to the best takeaway place in her neighborhood and let Bernie pick the menu. It is good, and warm and filling, and leaves her mouth on fire. 

She stares at Bernie as she sips deeply from her wine glass, watches her spear a floret of broccoli, swirl it in the sauce, watches her chew it, can’t stop herself from watching. Bernie catches Serena’s stare, looks up through her lashes, her eyes brown and dark and content and it makes Serena’s heart melt a bit. And the clock chimes the hour, loudly, breaking the silence, breaking their stare. Bernie jumps at the noise, knocks her plate into her lap and yelps out a “Fuck!” at the heat on her thighs, pushes back her chair so quickly it falls backward onto the floor and she almost trips over it. 

“Upstairs, now. My bathroom. Trousers off. Tub,” Serena directs, always good in a crisis, and Bernie, ever the soldier, complies with the request without a second thought. Serena hears the tap turn on as she starts cleaning up the mess on the floor, paper towels and her hand doing a good enough job. She sprays the area down with a stain remover, lets it sit as she goes upstairs to assess the damage. 

Bernie is gingerly sitting on the edge of the bath, her thighs bright red, her black trousers next to the toilet. Serena feels as if she’s hit a wall, stands stock-still in the doorway as she takes in the sight of Bernie Wolfe, half-naked, in her en suite. 

Bernie turns her head, looks at Serena over her shoulder. “Come on, Serena, it can’t be that bad,” she says, a small smile on her face, though Serena can see that she’s in a bit of pain. 

The sound of her name on Bernie’s lips spurs Serena into action and she fumbles in her cabinets for aloe, almost rubs it into her hands before she realizes she doesn’t quite have permission to rub soothing agents onto Bernie’s thighs. She blushes, red as the marks on Bernie’s legs and hands the tube over and Bernie takes it gratefully, turns off the cold water. 

It’s too much for her to watch Bernie rub at her own thighs, so Serena ducks out of the bathroom, rifles through her drawers for something for Bernie to wear, finds a loose pair of yoga pants that is better than nothing, drops them on the toilet with mumbled words about how they’ll get Bernie through the night as she picks up the dirty trousers and tosses them into her laundry basket. 

Later, with fresh wine in their hands, they’re sat in front of the television, an episode of Bake-Off playing, and an ice pack in Bernie’s lap. She’s rolled the top of the yoga pants a few times, to keep them on her hips, but they fit well enough and she says they’re comfortable. “Not sure you’ll be getting these back, Campbell,” she says, a little sleepily, her head tipped back against the couch, and Serena can’t find it in herself to care.

*

Serena has barely opened the door to her home before Bernie’s mouth is on her neck, hot and heavy and wet. She’s fumbling with the clasp of Serena’s trousers, pulls her hips close by the empty belt loops, then slips her hand inside, right inside Serena’s knickers too. She’s pushed Serena against the door, the locking clicking shut as the door closes tightly. Serena leans her head back, just lets Bernie take the lead, lets Bernie do the work. Bernie’s hands are busy, quick, and she seems determined to get Serena off before her clothes even hit the floor. Her mouth is still on Serena’s neck, sucking at the pulse point there, nipping at the vein, leaving marks Serena knows she’ll regret tomorrow but can’t bring herself to care about now. 

She’s not sure what to do with her hands, flails them slightly before setting them on Bernie’s shoulders, tangling into her hair, encouraging everything Bernie is doing. She presses kisses to Bernie’s scalp when she can, finds herself panting quickly, finds herself brought to the edge, and then lets Bernie take her over the edge, falls apart with a muffled yelp into Bernie’s hair. 

And then she takes Bernie’s hand and leads her upstairs. 

She straddles Bernie in her bed, one leg on either side of Bernie’s long, lithe body. She holds Bernie’s hands above her head, pressed into the pillows, and leans down to kiss her, long and deep and slow, her tongue delving into Bernie’s mouth, tasting the wine from dinner, the chocolate of dessert, the mint from her mouthwash. She knows these tastes so well, but tasting them on Bernie’s lips is heady and wonderful and makes her grind into Bernie ever so slightly, Bernie moaning into their kiss, encouraging Serena on. 

She rubs against Bernie’s thigh, slides her hands in between Bernie’s legs, rubs at her thighs, thinks of the day when Bernie sat in her bathroom, doing the same thing she’s doing now. Bernie’s hips buck up into Serena’s fingers and she teases at Bernie’s entrance, light flicks, only going in further at a glare from Bernie. Bernie is more vocal in the bedroom than she is anywhere else, tells Serena what she wants and where and how and Serena’s never been more glad to be told what to do, still feels inexperienced and new, though Bernie’s successive orgasms on more than one occasion would suggest otherwise.

They make their way to the bathroom, to a warm bath Serena draws up, lighting a floral-scented candle and dimming the lights. They sit together in the water, Serena’s back pressed to Bernie’s front, her head nestled against Bernie’s neck, Bernie’s hands drifting up and down Serena’s stomach, rippling the water. They’re quiet, content, there’s nothing that needs to be said. This is what happiness feels like, Serena thinks. It’s been a long time, another world, since she’s felt this way. 

She stands up when the water gets cold, pulls a towel around her and holds her hand out to help Bernie from the tub. Bernie nabs the bathrobe off the hook on the door, looks a bit silly in the fluffy pink terrycloth, but it softens her, reminds Serena of that long coat Bernie loves so much. 

She grabs at the tie of the robe, knots it around Bernie’s waist, then hooks her fingers in the taut tie and pulls her back towards the bedroom, her eyes dark and she sees her want mirrored in Bernie’s face as Bernie lets herself be pulled to the bed. She thinks she’ll let Bernie keep the bathrobe, thinks she’ll never be able to wear it again without thinking of this night.

*

Serena wakes up before Bernie, squints her eyes against the sun streaming in through her windows, the blinds not drawn. Bernie’s face is mashed into her neck, a small line of dribble pooling on her t-shirt. She knows it must be love because she finds this endearing in a way she never did with Edward. Serena twists her neck, buries her nose in Bernie’s hair, breathes in. Messy though it is, it always smells fresh and clean, a scent she associates now with the woman sleeping beside her. 

Bernie cuddles close during the night, more than Serena ever would have guessed at the outset of their friendship. But she gets cold easily, and has said Serena is better than any hot water bottle she’s ever used. She slides her cold toes between Serena’s calves, bends her long legs at the knees and holds onto Serena like a liferaft. Serena doesn’t mind it, likes it when Bernie is vulnerable and soft, malleable with sleep. 

Bernie stirs, stretches, reaches arms above her head, her whole body expanding like a morning glory in the early hours of dawn. She smiles a slow sleepy smile at Serena, her wide mouth happy, her eyes lined with sleep. Serena rubs her thumb against the corner of Bernie’s eye, wipes the crust away. “You have to go to work soon,” she says, because she has the day off, plans to spend it in this very bed sleeping, until Jason gets home and it’s time to watch Countdown and make sandwiches for lunch.

Bernie grunts slightly and rolls away from Serena, thumps her feet on the floor. She’s a morning person by nature, but Serena’s found that she dislikes getting up when it means she has to leave Serena behind, and it’s such an endearing fact that she doesn’t make a fuss about it.

Bernie’s rifling in Serena’s closet, pulls on the jeans from the day before. She finds her bra on the floor, and grabs something off a hanger before heading back into the bedroom. Serena watches this all from her place in the bed, the duvet pooled around her hips. She sees Bernie has taken one of her blouses and has slid it on, and is hit square in the chest with the knowledge that this woman just came from her bed. Her face flushes at the pleasure of it.

“You realize by wearing that, you’re practically announcing the fact that we’re sleeping together,” Serena says, running a hand through her hair as Bernie buttons up the orange blouse over one of her black vests. 

“I think people already know,” Bernie says, but says it in such a casual way that Serena’s heart rattles against her ribcage, because it doesn’t seem to bother or scare her at all. She fingercombs her tawny mop into a ponytail, ties it back and then leans down to kiss Serena, a good morning and a good bye, her breath slightly tangy, and Serena doesn’t even mind it. 

“I’m going to need that top back,” she says, her eyes closed as Bernie pulls away. She can feel herself follow Bernie’s lips, her head lifting from the pillow. Bernie presses one more quick kiss to Serena’s mouth and evades Serena’s attempt to pull her back down. 

“We’ll see,” is all she says with a shrug, and closes the bedroom door behind her.

*

When Bernie moves in, she has a bin bag full of clothes that all belonged to Serena at one point. Serena grabs the bag from Bernie’s hands, dumps it on the floor and pulls the clothes out from the pile one by one, her eyebrow raised, but no comment emanating from her lips. Bernie looks embarrassed, scuffs her foot against the floor, mutters something.

“What’s that now?” Serena asks, holding a black silk blouse in her hands, the very first thing Bernie ever took. 

“I liked having them with me,” Bernie says, sounding a little perturbed at the forced confession of her feelings, the forced intimacy. “It was like having you with me.” It’s not that she’s against sharing things, it’s just that she likes to be in control of the time and place in which they are shared, Serena has found.

“Well when you say things like that, how can I be angry with you for nicking my things?” Serena asks, standing up. She leans in to kiss Bernie, soft and sweet, brushes the fringe from her eyes, cups her face against Bernie’s cheek. Bernie closes her eyes at the contact, leans into the touch. 

“I’m keeping the hoodie,” she says, and Serena laughs, presses her forehead to Bernie’s. 

“I can live with that.”


	17. the sun is still in the sky and shining above you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked for: "serena thinks it'd be a good idea to sign up for the local theatre production of mamma mia and manages to get bernie to sign up too. serena gets the part, bernie doesn't (she's down-hearted for a bit then she's rather relieved about it) but she goes every single night to support serena and whenever serena gets nervous, bernie tells her to look out into the audience and find her and each time she does, bernie gives her a thumbs up or some form of reassurance"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a thank you to ms. spears for the use of her lyrics for the preceding 16 chapter titles. this chapter title is from chiquitita by, of course, ABBA.

_Holby Players Present_ _  
_ **_MAMMA MIA_ ** **_  
_ ** _Actors, singers, dancers needed!_  
_Auditions to be held Thursday & Friday  
__Don’t let the opportunity go slipping through your fingers!_

The flier is bright pink and catches Serena’s eye as she and Bernie are leaving the hospital for the day. She pulls Bernie over to the bulletin board by their joined hands and stares at it for a moment. “What are you thinking, Ms. Campbell?” Bernie asks as Serena holds the corner of the pink paper in fingers, her eyebrow quirked the way it does when she gets an idea into her head, one that Bernie almost always has reservations about.

“You know we’ve been looking for something to do in the evenings,” Serena says, casually, conversationally. It’s sort of true; Serena has expressed a disinterest in just watching television, especially when Jason isn’t home. Bernie thought they might fill their time with board games or books instead. Not singing on a stage in front of other people.

“I don’t sing,” Bernie says, as they walk to the car. “And I definitely don’t dance.” She drops Serena’s hand so she can unlock the doors and slide into the driver’s seat.

“Oh you do too sing. What was it in the shower the other day - the Cornetto jingle?” Serena ducks into the passenger’s side of the car, laughter dancing in her eyes and a smirk on her lips. Bernie just shoots her a look, quick and dark, and turns the car on. The radio flicks on as well, and Serena fiddles with the tuner until a song she recognizes comes through the speakers. Her voice is clear and pretty, and she hits all the notes easily. Bernie pretends not to notice, just drums her fingers against the steering wheel in time with the bass line.

“Come on, Bernie, you know this one,” Serena cajoles, her hand dancing up to Bernie’s neck, flicking gently at her ear. She is childlike in her petulance and to Bernie’s chagrin, she doesn’t even find Serena’s inducements at all irritating. Rather, when it comes from that face, those lips, those eyes, Bernie finds herself quite charmed.

So she opens her mouth to join in, her voice far more of a reedy tenor than anything else, but nothing, surely, to brag about. But Serena’s smile, a radiant beam exploding from her face, is enough to make Bernie glad to have catered to Serena’s whims.

By the time they pull in front of Serena’s garage (their garage, Serena sternly corrects every time Bernie forgets to refer to it as such), Bernie is belting out songs, not even blushing when the discordant sound of missed notes is glaringly apparent. Serena finds herself dropping back, just watching Bernie, more carefree than she was even a year earlier, happily bleating out lyrics, fudging the words when she isn’t sure of the next line. That’s how she ended up singing “We built this city on sausage rolls” to Serena’s endless amusement.

Jason’s away for the week, he and Alan planned a trip to visit the military museums of England, and so Bernie and Serena have the house to themselves. Serena’s found that Bernie’s a dab hand in the kitchen, able to make more than just spaghetti and meat sauce if given the opportunity. Serena finds recipes she’s interested in, and then Bernie makes them. It’s a fairly nice routine, and Serena enjoys being cooked for - it’d been quite some time since she’d enjoyed such a luxury. So she sits in the kitchen, perched on one of the high stools at the island, and sips at wine while Bernie moves about, as comfortable as if she’d been living there for years, instead of just the three months since she’d moved in. (Serena claims Bernie has actually lived in the house for almost nine months, just wouldn’t admit it, but it’s been three months since she ended her lease at the flat near the hospital).

Serena gently fingers the stem of her wineglass, unsure of whether or not to broach the topic of the auditions for the Holby Players again. She’d gotten Bernie to sing with gentle teasing and flirty touches, but doesn’t know if that’s enough to get her to stand on stage in front of other people. As bombastic and showy as Bernie can be in the operating theatre, she’s relatively shy and retiring in her personal life. Serena thinks she might be the opposite - capable, perfunctory and quite sure of herself when holding a scalpel, but far more extroverted when the scrub cap is off, a wink and a grin for every person in her orbit. They’re complementary, Serena decided long ago, like two halves that have found each other. Unfortunately, that makes it harder to find activities that suit the both of them. Yes, they read medical journals together and comment on new procedures, and they go out to dinner and wine tastings, but Serena thinks of the couples that go jogging together (not that she has any desire to go jogging), or the ones that take cooking classes together (she isn’t sure Bernie has any interest in that), and she has a bit of a hankering for the two of them to do something together, as silly as it might seem.

Bernie surprises Serena, though, and she is the one to bring up “Mamma Mia” auditions, after dinner, while Serena is washing the dishes. She has a towel draped over her shoulder, ready to dry, and she says, “What does an audition require?”

Serena almost drops a plate into the dishwater, but manages to hold on. “Usually a line reading, a few bars of a song. They might have you learn a dance on the spot, just to see how quickly you pick up the steps.” Bernie’s eyes look wide and slightly frightened and Serena thinks about making a joke about running off to Kiev but stops herself, because Bernie still holds guilt and sadness about it, holds it around her like a blanket. “What’s the worst that happens, Bernie? They don’t pick you to play Donna? You play a townsperson?” Bernie ducks her head, unwilling to look Serena in the eye, but Serena isn’t one to allow avoidance, not anymore, and she reaches out to touch Bernie’s chin, soapy hand and all, and tilts her face up so their eyes meet. “What is it?” she asks, gentling her voice, and Bernie’s whole face softens.

“I...dislike being an amateur at things,” she says, low and haltingly. Serena almost laughs at this but doesn’t, because it is obviously quite serious to Bernie.

“No one _likes_ it, darling. What if I teach you some basic steps, whatever I can remember from my early days on stage?” Serena says, and Bernie sighs, shrugs, and Serena thinks that’s as close to acquiescence as she’ll get, for now.

*

Bernie is quite serious, apparently, about not wanting to look like a novice when they show up for these auditions, and badgers Serena into teaching her dance steps, jazz squares and box steps. Serena even tries a kick ball change, but Bernie can’t quite get it, and shuts down after a few failed attempts. Serena thinks Bernie must have lived a life of picking up things easily to have this much aversion to learning new things. It doesn’t seem quite fair, to be tall and blonde and beautiful and to have a natural talent for sport and school. Serena takes a private enjoyment about the fact that she is better at this than Bernie, that there’s not a great chance Bernie will surpass her. She knows it’s a horrible thing for a teacher to feel, as she tries to describe how to do the weight shift required of the basic steps, but still feels a little satisfaction that Bernie still hasn’t mastered the kick ball change before they retire to their bedroom.

She likes to curl up into Bernie when they’re asleep, her head in the crook of Bernie’s neck, an arm resting in the dip of her waist, her feet tucked between Bernie’s calves. Bernie has never said she minded being Serena’s pillow, just hums contentedly into Serena’s hair, noses into the strands, breathing deeply, and bends one arm at the elbow, the palm of her hand resting on the mattress, her fingers just below Serena’s chin, easy enough to caress her face softly as they wake in the morning.

On this night, Serena finds herself compelled to hum a tune for the both of them, a lullaby to soothe them to sleep. Bernie isn’t mad, exactly, but she’s not particularly pleased either. She’s put out, Serena would say, and she wants to make it right. So she sifts through the songs in her head, can only really think of the quiet tune from the musical she’s talked Bernie into auditioning for, and begins to softly hum “Slipping Through My Fingers” and feels Bernie relax at the sound, a gentle murmur of approval from low in her throat, her thumb brushing against Serena’s cheek, just brushing at her eyelashes.

She feels, rather than sees, Bernie fall asleep, and finds herself not tired in the least, keyed up at the thought of auditioning, at the idea of being on stage, at being close to Bernie. She always feels a low, steady pulse at Bernie’s proximity, can never seem to get her fill of the other woman. Bernie’s said the same is true for her, and Serena marvels at it, because she never felt this way with Edward, not even when things were good between them. She lets her hand, the one draped over Bernie’s waist, fiddle with the edge of Bernie’s vest, her fingertips just sliding under the hem, feeling the warmth of her skin. She lightly scrapes her nails along Bernie’s lower back, and she instinctively arches at the contact, her eyes still closed, her breath still soft and slow. Serena places a light kiss on Bernie’s chin, moves up to the soft space behind her ear, breathes in the scent of her hair, just soap and clean. “Serena,” Bernie mumbles against her scalp, and Serena pulls back, only slightly embarrassed to have woken Bernie. Her eyes are open, she hadn’t been asleep for very long, and her mouth is smiling, because she likes it when Serena does this. She’s never said the words, but Serena knows when Bernie likes something and when she doesn’t, and Serena knows she likes this.

She lets her hand continue its journey underneath Bernie’s shirt, climbing towards her breasts, gently squeezing, rolling her nipples, one at a time, between her fingers. Serena pushes Bernie onto her back - she’s malleable with sleep, malleable under Serena’s ministrations - and her other hand starts to lift Bernie’s shirt, to pull it over her head.

There’s something to be said for passion and heat and eroticism, but Serena also loves this, the quiet, slow, warmth they build up between them, mutual want and need, and they take their time and enjoy every moment. Bernie kisses Serena, open-mouthed and wet, her tongue sliding into Serena’s mouth like it belongs there, and Serena has never been happier to take in a visitor. They aren’t scrabbling each other in a frenzy, they’re undulating slowly against each other, a high tide just waiting to crash over the shore. Bernie’s hands have joined in, teasing at Serena’s entrance, gently pulling at her, nuzzling into her. Their bodies move in a slow rhythm, and Serena thinks that she’ll use this as an example if Bernie ever says she can’t keep time with music. She comes with a quiet moan, and Bernie follows soon after, any noise she makes muffled in Serena’s neck, but she feels the vibration against her skin.

They are sticky, a soft glow around their bodies, an aura of contentment, and Serena thinks she’ll be happy forever, so long as they have this. Bernie’s breath has already slowed, and Serena can feel her eyelashes fluttered closed against her sensitive skin. She stares up at the ceiling, listening to the woman next to her, and then lets her eyes close too.

*

Bernie demands they listen to the “Mamma Mia” soundtrack on their way to and from work, even plays it in their office while she’s doing paperwork. She learns every word, tries to memorize the melodies, but they don’t stick as well in her head. She sings along in the car, did it once at work, only to have Morven walk in on her with wide eyes and a plastered on smile. “Very nice, Ms. Wolfe. Thinking of auditioning tomorrow?” she asks and Bernie can’t think of anything to say so she just shrugs and asks Morven what brings her into the office.

The reminder that auditions are tomorrow sends Bernie into a bit of a tailspin and she snaps at Serena as they drive home, flicks off the music in the car just as Serena’s pretty voice lifts to sing the chorus of “The Winner Takes It All.” She feels resentful, mad that Serena should have such a nice voice, that it should be so effortless for her. She doesn’t think about the fact that Serena’s mother put in her voice lessons, that she did theater throughout her schooling, that she even sang in a church choir. Bernie tries not to be competitive about everything, but she can’t help it entirely, and so feels competitive about this. Serena tries to gentle it, tries to assure Bernie that it doesn’t matter, that no one will care, least of all her, if Bernie doesn’t succeed at this, but it just raises Bernie’s ire more, because it seems as if Serena is so sure she won’t succeed.

“You’re being impossible, you know,” Serena says as Bernie scowls down at their dinner, slightly burnt because Bernie’s foul mood kept her from paying attention to the timer. Bernie doesn’t say anything, because she knows how she’s being. Serena sighs, then reaches out to grab Bernie’s hand before she can pull it away. “I love you,” she says, firmly and with such surety that it makes Bernie blush clear up to her scalp. “It doesn’t matter what happens with this silly play.”

Bernie still doesn’t say anything, because what can be said in response to that, so she just squeezes Serena’s hand and tries to ease the frown from her face. She still wants to be the best, but thinks that taking second place to Serena, at least in this, isn’t the worst thing in the world. The reassurance that Serena will still be here even if Bernie doesn’t become star of the Holby Players feels like the best sort of consolation prize.

They don’t listen to the soundtrack that night, and they don’t talk about dance steps. Serena finds an old episode of Bake-Off recorded on the TV and pulls Bernie down onto the sofa to watch with her. Bernie pulls a blanket over them both, rests her feet on the coffee table in front of them, and it’s only moments before Serena puts her legs on top of Bernie’s. The coziness of it all, once strangling and suffocating, is now a balm to Bernie’s tired soul, and she allows herself to relax into it, allows herself to feel happy.

*

It was a mistake, Serena thinks, to arrange a day off for themselves on the day of the auditions, because Bernie is a keyed up, nervous mess and there’s no surgery or trauma to help take the edge off. So Serena decides to take the edge off in the only other way she knows how. She comes into the bathroom while Bernie’s in the shower, slides the bathrobe off her shoulders, pulls her nightgown over her head, and steps under the spray, sliding her body close to Bernie’s slick skin, her front pressed to Bernie’s back, and holds her close, one hand traveling up, the other down as she moves Bernie towards the wall of the shower. Bernie braces herself against the tile, resting her head on her forearms, her elbows bent, and she lets Serena continue her ministrations, none of the slow burn of several nights before, but a speedy, calculated mission, hard and fast and a little painful, and Bernie can’t keep her pleasure quiet. Serena pinches and scrapes and teases and has Bernie panting before she knows it, and then Bernie isn’t satisfied to have her back to Serena, and pushes her way around so they’re face to face. Bernie holds Serena’s hand in place between her thighs, but kisses her deeply, holding her head close with her other hand, the water sluicing down her wet fingers, down Serena’s neck and back. Serena lets Bernie come with one final twist and crook of her hand and Bernie lets go of Serena’s wrist, holds onto her hips instead, squeezes Serena’s arse, her fingers dimpling her flesh, and Serena knows she’s about to get as good as she gave.

Bernie starts to lick her way down Serena’s chest, following the drips of water that escape over Serena’s shoulders. Her hair is damp and dark and she looks up at Serena with a glint in her eyes and Serena has to brace herself against the soapdish and the door to the shower. Bernie nibbles at Serena’s hip bones, nosing them, and Serena feels her whole body go on alert, so aware of every action Bernie’s mouth takes. And then her tongue is just _there_ and Serena lets go of the wall, of the soapdish, and puts her hands to Bernie’s head, both to steady herself and to keep Bernie right where she needs her most. The steam from the shower and the ministrations between her thighs make Serena’s cheeks pink and hot, but it’s Bernie’s tongue, with one strong swipe, that makes Serena cry out, loud and quick. Bernie pulls her head back, looks up at Serena with a smirk, and wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, licking the residue before standing and kissing Serena. “Now you have to wash my back,” Bernie says, when she’s finished her thorough exploration of Serena’s mouth, and holds out the washcloth, already foamed with soap.

Bernie seems more at ease after the shower, a little less tense as Serena pours them each a cup of coffee. They’re sat in the kitchen, each in a robe, their hair still damp. Bernie’s looks a tangled mess, but Serena knows that one swipe through with her fingers will tame it enough that it will instead look rakishly charming. “Do you feel ready?” Bernie asks after a sip from her mug. “We’ve spent so much time getting me prepared, I never thought to ask you.”

“Oh, darling,” Serena says, patting Bernie’s hand. “I was born ready for things like this.” She thinks how strange it is that Bernie can work in war zones, can make snap decisions in the face of horrible traumas, but the prospect of being taught an easy dance and to have to sing a few bars of an ABBA tune have her completely flummoxed. But Serena has inside herself a natural performer, and she thinks not everyone is blessed with such a trait.

Bernie smiles, and Serena thinks she’s done as much as she can to make Bernie comfortable, doesn’t really know what to expect from community theater auditions. She excuses herself to run a brush through her hair, to get dressed and put on make-up. Bernie will take five minutes to do the same, and it’s about the only thing Serena truly resents her for. Bernie once asked why Serena took the time on blush and lipstick and all the things she does to make her face look closer to forty than fifty, and Serena wishes she had a better answer than simply to say, “I like to look nice,” but that’s the truth of it. She likes the way she looks with bright red lips, pink cheeks, lined eyes. She likes the way Bernie looks at her when she’s all done up, too.

She drives them to the theater, Bernie sitting on her hands in the passenger seat. Serena parks, but doesn’t unlock the doors, just twists slightly in her seat to face Bernie. “You’re lovely and good, and my affection for you is not tied up in how well you sing,” she says, and Bernie shifts uncomfortably, the way she does when she likes the words coming from Serena’s mouth but doesn’t know how to respond.

“Well, mine for you is, so you’d better have a good audition,” Bernie says finally, a small smile on her face, and Serena laughs, gives Bernie a peck on the cheek and wipes the residue from her lipstick off in one smooth move, and they get out of the car. Serena reaches for Bernie’s hand as they walk in, and Bernie gives her palm a quick squeeze before pulling her hand back, fiddling with her hair. Serena thinks Bernie still isn’t quite comfortable with being so public - it’s different at the hospital where everyone knows because of the interminable gossip mill, but this is strangers, people she doesn’t know she can trust, and so Bernie is more cautious. Serena refrains from making the comment that theater folk are generally the most open and understanding of the lot, and they should be the least of Bernie’s worries.

There’s a pompous sort of man, the kind of person who, when given the tiniest bit of authority, feels as though they are in charge of the world, standing at the entrance to the theater, a clipboard in hand. He takes their names, phone numbers, desired roles, hands them each a page of sheet music with a snippet of script printed on the back. The cushioned seats in the theater aren’t full, but it isn’t empty - there’s a fair amount of interest. Serena sees more young people, aiming for the daughter role, and looks out for people her own age, sitting closer to the front. Bernie lets her lead them to a pair of seats near the front, and sits, gripping the armrests, only loosening her hold when Serena gently strokes the back of her hand with her fingers.

They only have to wait a few moments, and then the man with the clipboard is on stage, announcing the procedures for the auditions, and then drops the bombshell that they’ll be going in alphabetical order. Bernie looks at Serena with those wide panicked eyes, and Serena doesn’t know how to alleviate this, not in public, not now that they’re already here. Before she can say anything, they’re being ushered onto the stage to be taught a simple dance sequence. “You’ll get to see everyone do their dance before you have to do it - it’ll keep it fresh in your mind,” Serena tries to reassure Bernie, but doesn’t think it’s working very well. Bernie moves to the back of the stage, far from the eye of the choreographer, and Serena, though she would much rather be closer to the front, stays near Bernie, listening carefully to the steps as they’re called out. It’s not a hard routine, and she’s glad she and Bernie went over some things beforehand, but she can see that Bernie is not at all confident and can’t hit the beats through her nerves. They run through the sixteen-count a few more times, and Bernie is only getting clumsier at it. Then they’re ushered off the stage to wait to be called up.

Serena is fourth to go up, sings through the sheet music easily, and Bernie sees that her clear voice has many people in the theater looking up to see who it is that is singing so nicely. She does the dance routine as if she’d known it for years, and she and the director read lines like she’s already been given the part. Serena has such an easy banter with everyone, and Bernie is so envious of that ease.

The wait seems interminable until Bernie’s name is called. She tries to run through the dance steps in her head, tries to move her feet as each person does the routine. She studies the sheet music, tries to make sense of the black notes, though she’s never been taught to read music. Bernie has been on a football team, a field hockey team, even tried out a rowing team once. She performs well in those arenas. She excels as a star surgeon, doesn’t mind being the center of attention in that circumstance. But this, in a place where she doesn’t feel confident, she couldn’t feel less at ease. Serena is at her side, her arm pushed next to Bernie’s, her warm weight a comfort as Bernie’s leg begins to bounce up and down from nerves. Serena rests a hand on Bernie’s knee, rubs her thumb back and forth across Bernie’s jeans, and Bernie tries to calm herself, for Serena’s sake.

Finally, when it seems like everyone else has gone up, Bernie’s name is called, and she dutifully troops up the stairs, her posture practically screaming she would rather be anywhere but here. Her voice is thin and shaky as she sings through the few bars, her steps clumsy and off-beat as she dances, and she stutters over the words, trips up a few times, as she and the director read lines. She bolts off the stage as soon as she can, and Serena is already standing, waiting to lead her out. “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” the man with the clipboard chirps as they leave.

*

Both Serena and Bernie feel certain that Bernie will not get cast and that Serena will. They don’t talk about it, just wait for Saturday, when the roles will be announced. They go to work on Friday as normal, and no one brings up “Mamma Mia,” though Serena is sure everyone knows about it. There’s a studied avoidance of the topic and Serena doesn’t know whether to be grateful or annoyed.

They have a late start on Saturday, so Serena stays in bed long after the sun is up, listens to Bernie putter downstairs, thinks she’ll be brought a cup of coffee before long. Her phone buzzes, and she answers it without thinking.

“Is this Serena Campbell?” a voice crackles through the line, and Serena thinks it’s probably the clipboard man.

“It is,” she answers, her voice a little higher as she waits in anticipation, wondering who they’ve placed her as.

“How would you like to play Rosie in the Holby Players production of Mamma Mia?” He is so pompous about it that Serena rolls her eyes, grateful that she can’t be seen. She wonders if it’s her slight resemblance to Julie Walters that has gotten her the role - she always felt a bit more of a kinship to the Tanya part, but expects they want someone tall and thin to play her.

“I would be honored,” she says after a beat, realizing she hadn’t said anything.

“Wonderful, wonderful. I’ll send a rehearsal schedule to your email and... and, uh, if you could tell Ms. Wolfe that there weren’t any parts we felt she was quite right for, that would be, uh, appreciated. She is welcome to help with set design or carpentry if she still would like to be a part of the production.” Serena can’t help but roll her eyes again, as they’ve sloughed off the hard part of the job to her, but thinks breaking the news to Bernie is something she can do better than most. She gives him her email address and he tells her proper rehearsals start Monday.

Bernie comes up moments later, coffee mugs clenched in each hand. She hands one to Serena before settling next to her in bed, and Serena takes a sip, bracing herself to tell Bernie the bad news. “So, I just got a phone call,” she says conversationally, and Bernie’s whole body pricks up, like a hound after a scent. “I’ve been given a lead role. Rosie. The clumsy one.” She tries not to sound braggy about it, just pleased. Bernie turns with a wide smile, and Serena wonders briefly who told Bernie never to show her teeth when she grins. “And, uh. They thought your talents might be more suited to behind the scenes.” It’s not a very elegant way to share the news, but Bernie seems to take it gamely enough, just a shrug and a sip of coffee.

“Not like we expected any different,” she says, and Serena thinks she might detect a little bit of hurt behind Bernie’s words, but doesn’t know how to make it better. It’s not like she can make them give Bernie a part. Although she wonders what the reaction would be if Bernie had been cast as her love interest. The thought tickles her enough that a small chuckle burbles out before she can clap it back in, and Bernie looks at her with an eyebrow raised, a gesture she seems to have picked up from Serena. “Just imagining what it could’ve been like if you’d gotten the role of Bill.” Bernie looks momentarily confused, but then understanding breaks through her features and she huffs out a laugh, too. Bumps Serena’s shoulder. They’ll be all right, Serena thinks.

*

Bernie ends up being relieved she wasn’t given a part. She goes with Serena to rehearsals for a bit, helps build a dock, paints some trees, but lets her participation fade out, is content to let this be Serena’s thing. She watches Serena dance around the house, singing ABBA songs under her breath. She covers the night shifts Serena can’t make because of play practice. She wonders if Serena thinks she’s still sore over not getting cast, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. She is happy to be back in her ordered world, doing the thing she’s best at, without having to worry about holding a tune, or some man in a clipboard deciding she’s good enough.

As the performance date gets closer, Serena seems nervous. She talks about ticket sales, how shows are selling out. She worries about her vocal health, drinks endless cups of tea with honey. Jason tells her he’s tired of hearing her sing “Take a Chance on Me,” and she snaps that she can’t help it, before immediately apologizing. She’s tense. Bernie doesn’t quite know what to do about that.

She suggests they both take the day of opening night off, give them a chance to have time together before the big night. She lets Serena sleep in, wakes her up by sliding her hand under the elastic of Serena’s pajama bottoms, combing through the coarse dark hair till her fingers find their goal. Serena mewls slightly, arches into Bernie’s touch, holds her wrist to get a rhythm going. Bernie rubs herself against Serena’s thigh, matching the pace Serena has set. When Serena comes, in a short burst, she laughs. “I’m sorry, love,” she says, patting clumsily at Bernie’s cheek. “I just realized that was to the beat of my song in the musical.” Bernie laughs at that too, and they fall together on the bed, a heap of limbs and happiness, tangled together under the sheets.

Serena goes to the theater early, to make sure her costume and make-up are right, would rather fret with her castmates than with the two people at her home. Jason and Bernie have a quiet dinner of fish and chips, and Jason asks again why people like “Mamma Mia” so much when the plot seems rather silly to him. “It’s just fun, Jason. I think people like to escape.” She shrugs. “Besides, I think you’ll like it just because your auntie will be up on stage.”

“And we have good seats, right, Bernie? You’ve made sure?” He is particular about where he wants to be in the theater. Center of center, he’s told her many times. He doesn’t want the front row at all, wants to be able to take in the whole stage. Bernie asked him if he’d ever been to a play before. He said he’d once gone to something in London with his mother when he was very small, but it was too loud and they left at intermission. Bernie finds herself worrying that this will be too much for Jason too. She tries to reassure herself that he’s seen the movie and knows what to expect from that. She’s promised him that there will be better singers than Pierce Brosnan in this production.

“That’s why they didn’t cast me,” she jokes and Jason looks at her appraisingly.

“I don’t think you’d be very good on stage, Bernie,” he says with a matter-of-fact air.

“Oh? Why’s that?” she asks, braced for a potential insult to be given with the utmost reasonableness, but is surprised at the astuteness of what actually comes out of his mouth.

“Auntie Serena likes when people look at her. You don’t,” he says, and Bernie can do nothing but agree.

They drive to the theater, beating the crowds, and Bernie is able to pull in next to Serena’s car. She and Jason have dressed up for the occasion - he’s wearing a fresh-pressed shirt and a clip-on tie. She’s got on a black dress with thin straps, a red sweater wrapped around her shoulders. She warned Jason the theater got cold sometimes.

They’re seated in the center of the center, the best seats in the house, and Bernie waits in nervous anticipation, listening to the orchestra warm up. She flips through the program, finds Serena’s little biography, is warmed to see that she thanks both Bernie and Jason for their support of her first performance with the Holby Players. She points it out to Jason, who gives her a thumbs up.

The lights go down, the music crescendos, and Bernie lets herself be carried away to an island in Greece. Serena is funny and charming and, in Bernie’s opinion, steals the show from everyone else. Her natural charisma envelopes the audience, and they are all caught in her sway. And then, just as she’s about to start singing her solo number, Bernie sees just a flash of consternation cross Serena’s face, just a moment of doubt and worry. Serena’s gaze flicks out to the audience and Bernie does the first thing she can think of, a big thumbs up, doesn’t even know if Serena can see it.

The show ends, the curtain drops, and there are bows and curtain calls, and eventually a standing ovation. Jason asks why they stand and Bernie doesn’t know the factual, historical reason, and just says that’s what you do when you really enjoy a performance.

“I’m standing for Auntie Serena,” he says. “I don’t know if the rest of them deserve it.” Bernie laughs at that, is emboldened to put her arm around him for a moment, a quick squeeze, and then they head out into the lobby to wait for the appearance of their star.

*

Serena feels guilty because she practically forces Bernie to spend the next day reassuring her that the performance was good, that she said her lines clearly enough. She doesn’t say that she saw Bernie’s thumbs up because she doesn’t want to let on just how much she needed that boost. All she says after the performance is how pretty Bernie looks, how much she likes the dress, how good her legs look, compliments Bernie enough to make her blush and to make Jason roll his eyes and suggest they could do this just as easily at home.

There are five more performances, and Serena tries not to feel nervous, tries to tell herself she survived the hardest test, that everything after opening night is easy. But she still feels the butterflies in her stomach as the overture begins on the second night, presses her hands to her belly, trying to quell the fluttery feeling. As she stands in the wings of the stage and looks into the audience, she sees Bernie, alone this time, wearing the same clothes she wore to work that day, and feels a weight lift from her shoulders, wonders how Bernie knew to be here, wonders why Bernie didn’t say. Right before her solo number, she looks out towards Bernie, sees the thumbs up once more, feels a glow envelop her heart as she begins to sing.

After the show, Bernie waits in the lobby, says she walked over after work so they could drive home together. Serena, her face still painted in bright stage make-up, unthinkingly pulls Bernie into a kiss, earns a few whoops from her castmates. “Thank you,” she says, when she’s pulled away and caught her breath. Bernie looks slightly embarrassed, and Serena thinks she’s about to say she doesn’t need to be thanked. Before she can open her mouth, Serena puts a finger over Bernie’s lips. “It means the world that you’re here.” Doesn’t know how to make it more clear than that, doesn’t know if there’s she can say to let Bernie know just how touched she is.

“I have four more tickets,” Bernie mumbles, and Serena laughs. “Center of center, just like Jason taught me.” Serena wonders at how lucky she is to have this, to have Bernie, who anxiously auditioned and didn’t get a part, be so supportive of this silly pasttime she’s found.

“I’ll look for you every night,” Serena promises, holding Bernie close, pressing her hand to Bernie’s neck, her thumb rubbing against the soft hairs at the base of Bernie’s nape. Bernie’s breath is hot against Serena’s cheek but she doesn’t pull away.

“I’ll be wherever you need me to be,” she says, her voice low and solemn, meant just for Serena’s ears, and Serena knows she’s not just talking about sitting in the Holby Theater night after night.

“Me too,” she says, and presses a kiss against Bernie’s cheek, soft and sweet, and doesn’t wipe her lipstick away.


	18. wherever you are, and whatever you do, be in love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked for: bernie and serena buy a brand new house when serena's back from her sabbatical. house warming party w/ AAU family happens. back garden berena convo abt elinor/the year they've had. karaoke machine is whipped out. domestic berena (snuggling and hand holding and dancing in front of everyone in their new home) etc etc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is a quote from rumi

Bernie is driving over to Serena’s house for her weekly visit to collect and sort mail, make sure all the taps still work, that no squatters have settled in, when her phone buzzes. She swipes to answer the call with one hand, steering with the other, because it’s Serena on the other end and she never knows when she’ll get a call, always answers when she does.

“Hello,” she says, tries to make her voice sound as warm as possible, tries to make it seem like she’s not doing anything but listening to Serena. 

“You’re driving,” Serena’s voice comes through the phone, a little distant, a little fuzzy, and Bernie should know better than to ever try to fool the woman, even from miles and miles away. 

“I am,” she agrees, lodges the phone between her cheek and her shoulder as she turns the wheel to pull into Serena’s driveway. She puts the car in park and grabs her phone with her hand. “Now I’m not.” 

“This won’t take long, I just had a thought.” Serena calls with thoughts often, just things that strike her that she wants to tell Bernie. Like one day she calls to say that she’s decided to stop dyeing her hair, like that’s something that will affect how Bernie feels about her. Another time she calls to say that she’s had a thought that Jason might be a good cook, that she thinks she’s going to try to go to cooking lessons with him when she gets back. They’re things she would normally say to Bernie from across the desk in their shared office, except that she’s not here. Bernie doesn’t mind, would never mind, is always glad to know whatever is on Serena’s mind.

“Mm, what’s that?” Bernie again holds the phone with her shoulder as she twists the key into the door of Serena’s house with one hand and turns the knob with the other. 

“I think we should buy a house.” Bernie drops the phone then, because this isn’t a casual thought, this isn’t something small and mostly frivolous. This is a big thing and it’s scary and it’s hard to think about because she hasn’t seen Serena in months. It isn’t that she doesn’t love Serena or that she doesn’t feel like she’s ready to be in this together forever, it’s that she always cautions patients not to make any big decisions right after big life changes and this feels like the sort of thing that she would advise against. “Bernie?” Serena’s voice is still coming from the phone and Bernie bends to pick up her mobile. 

“Still here, sorry. Just dropped the phone a bit. You, uh, you think we should buy a house?” She doesn’t even try to make her voice sound even and calm. She sounds shaky and uncertain to her own ears, doesn’t know how it will be received by Serena.

“I do. I don’t want to rattle around in the house I have now, all full of memories and things I don’t want lurking about. I want to start something new when I come home, something with you. That is, unless...you’ve - you’ve changed your mind?” Her voice sounds small and scared, so different from the confident voice that declared they should buy a house only moments earlier.

It’s this uncertainty that makes Bernie’s mind up, and makes her say, “Okay.” She isn’t sure about a house, has lived in a furnished flat with almost no possessions of her own but some cheap sheets bought at Tesco’s and a microwave she purchased when it started to feel like too much work to turn on the stove just to make a meal for one. But she thinks of a house that she and Serena fill up together, maybe Jason too. She thinks of a room for Charlotte or Cameron, instead of a futon folding out in the living room of her one-bedroom. “Okay,” she says again, and she imagines she can hear Serena’s smile through the phone.

“I’ll be home in a week,” Serena says, “And we’ll start looking then.” She clicks off the phone abruptly, it’s been her way. She said, after the first time, that she didn’t want long, drawn-out good-byes or sappy “I love yous.” She said, after the first time, that she was saving those words for when she could see Bernie’s face. 

Bernie stands in the foyer to Serena’s home, her mobile still held up to her face, Serena’s house keys dangling from her hand. She shakes her head, clears her thoughts, focuses on the task in front of her. She pays extra special attention to things, now that Serena’s put a date on her homecoming. Bernie dusts at the mantle, but all she can find is all-purpose cleaner and paper towels. She’s sure Serena has a whole boatload of cleaning supplies with specific uses, but she’s never been one for that. So she does the best she can, figures that if she and Serena are going to be living together soon, Serena should be aware of the limitations on Bernie’s house-cleaning skills. 

*

Bernie goes to the airport to pick up Serena. She stands at the international arrivals area, fidgets nervously.  Morven intimated it would be nice if Bernie made a special attempt at her appearance, and Bernie had to agree. She’s dressed up, nice trousers, a freshly pressed shirt. She’s even made a passing attempt with her make-up, rouge and mascara and lipstick. She’s gotten her hair cut, fluffy around her chin, freshly dyed so the roots aren’t showing. She wonders what Serena’s hair looks like now, how streaked with grey it is. But she also doesn’t want Serena to think too much has changed in her absence, doesn’t want to look too different.

She checks her phone for texts every few seconds, to see if Serena’s landed, to see if she’s on her way. She knows Serena’s flight isn’t due in for another twenty minutes, was early to something for the first time in her life. She can’t stop checking, though. She’d asked Jason if he wanted to come, but he said it wasn’t enough notice, that he’s got plans with Alan. Bernie has to remind herself that Jason might not understand what Serena will feel when she sees that Jason isn’t there. So she just suggests that Jason text Serena sooner rather than later to make plans to see her once she’s back, and he agrees that it’s a good plan. 

If she’s honest, Bernie doesn’t know if she could stand waiting with Jason, because he’d surely be counting every time she looked at her phone, every fidget of her fingers, and he would comment on it all. She loves him, very dearly, but it’s the last thing she wants right now, as she wraps her arms around herself, trying to hold it all together, keep everything she’s feeling inside. She suddenly wishes she was just wearing her skinny jeans and a hoodie, a civilian uniform she’s comfortable in. Her phone buzzes just then, a text from Serena that just says “landed x” and Bernie feels her whole body tense, her nerves jangling, her heart rattling in her chest. She knows from experience just how long customs can take, that it still might be some time before Serena comes down the escalator, before she can see that wide smile, those slightly crooked teeth, but she still stands there, doesn’t want to miss the opportunity by sitting back in the seats against the wall. 

Serena sends texts while she’s bored and waiting in line. Silly emojis and commentary on the people around her that make Bernie smile. She sends back emojis without really understanding what she’s doing, but she thinks that makes it more fun for Serena, can imagine Serena laughing at her neophyte ways. She sends a picture of wind blowing and Serena answers with a cheeky smirk, and it’s only after the fact Bernie realizes the innuendo potentially associated with such a thing. She feels her face heat, casts a furtive glance around to see if anyone is watching, but everyone around her is facing the escalators, just as nervous, as excited, to be reunited with their loved ones. 

Her phone buzzes again, just two words this time: “I’m through.”

Bernie moves so she’s closer to the foot of the escalators, can almost see the top of them, watches every pair of feet step on, waits for the ones that look like Serena. It feels like she blinks, and then Serena is in front of her, a bag slung over her shoulder as she walks down the moving stairs quickly, and Bernie is moving too, and they meet right at the foot of the escalator, and Bernie’s arms go around Serena, and she nuzzles right into her neck, right behind her ear and breathes in deep, smells earthiness and wine and Serena, and can’t get enough. “I missed you,” she murmurs, and Serena nudges Bernie with her nose, tilts her face so they’re eye to eye, their lips so close, their breath mingling. 

“Me too,” she says, and kisses Bernie before she can say anything else. It’s slow and sweet and tastes like home and when Bernie slides her tongue into Serena’s mouth, she’s not even thinking about the people all around. It’s been so long and it also feels like no time has passed and Bernie just cannot get enough. Her arms hold Serena close, even when their lips separate. “Hi,” Serena says, her voice low and sweet and happy, and Bernie can’t quite remember the last time Serena looked this calm. 

“Hi,” she says back, links their arms, and leads Serena towards the baggage claim, trying to think of something to say, of a question that doesn’t sound silly and inane. “Good flight?” she asks, and Serena squeezes her wrist.

“It was long. I wanted to see you,” she says, and smiles up at Bernie. Her hair is shorter, peppered with grey and Bernie loves it. Her face is mostly bare of makeup, another casualty of her sabbatical, Bernie thinks. She’s changed, she’s shifted, she’s grown into something else. Bernie feels like they’re more similar now, both survivors of trauma, deep and life-altering. She recognizes some of herself in Serena now, and can’t quite decide if it’s a good or bad thing, doesn’t know yet what it will be. 

They wait for the bags to come down the ramp, and Bernie clasps Serena’s hand in her own. Her skin feels rough against Bernie’s smooth palms and Bernie almost asks what she’s been up to, but thinks she’ll wait until Serena’s ready to tell. She doesn’t know what this new Serena is like, really, doesn’t know if she’s as open, as kind, as free. It’s scary, but it doesn’t scare her away.

Eventually, Serena’s bag appears, tagged with a pink plastic flower that feels so like the Serena from before that Bernie is heartened, lifts it from the conveyor belt with very little strain, sees a flash in Serena’s eyes, and feels a low burble in her stomach, thinks she wants to get Serena home, in bed. Hasn’t let herself think that way in a while.

Serena kisses her again as they walk to the car, a press of the lips to the corner of Bernie’s mouth, a small drag of her teeth against Bernie’s lower lip, a promise of what’s to come when they’re home. Bernie thinks about driving to Serena’s house, of showing off what good care she’s taken of it all these months, but changes her mind at the last moment, goes to her flat instead. She hefts Serena’s suitcase, carries it up the stairs to her third floor apartments - the lifts are broken. Serena follows behind and Bernie tries to remember if Serena’s even ever seen the inside of her flat. She also can’t remember if she’s washed dishes in the last two days, or if she made her bed in the morning.

But as she opens the door, she thinks it doesn’t matter, because Serena presses her against the door, kisses her deeply and long, lets her hands run down Bernie’s sides, sticks her thumbs in the belt loops of Bernie’s trousers. “You look very nice,” she whispers in Bernie’s ear, nosing into her hair, the fluffy mass she never really tries to tame. Serena’s lips close around Bernie’s earlobe, suck it into her mouth gently, nibbles ever so slightly. Bernie drops Serena’s bag with a  _ thunk _ on the ground, wraps her arms around her and holds her close, so close, doesn’t ever want to let go. They kiss and kiss and kiss and Bernie can’t believe she’s been without this for so long, relearns the taste of Serena, a little different than it was before she left, thinks there’s a little bitterness there now, like dark chocolate.  

“You must be tired,” Bernie says, a little breathlessly, her mouth next to Serena’s cheek, her lips rubbing against her skin as she talks. Serena hums from the back of her throat, and Bernie knows she is but that she won’t admit it, that she wants to make sure Bernie is taken care of, that she feels selfish for leaving. She knows all these things about Serena because she knows everything about Serena, even though they’ve been apart. It’s how they work, an innate knowledge of the other person’s psyche without even trying, and it doesn’t fail her now. “I’m tired too,” she lies, because she wants to get Serena into bed, wants to hold Serena as she sleeps, wants to hear Serena’s gentle snores, exhalations of breath, wants to know Serena is close and real.

“Let’s go to bed, then,” Serena says on an exhale, and Bernie leads them to her bedroom, their fingers interlocked. The bed isn’t made, but Serena doesn’t seem to mind. Bernie tosses an old t-shirt at her and pulls off her own clothes. She has never been shy, self-conscious, bares herself to Serena even though they’ve been apart for months. Serena stares, her mouth open slightly, and Bernie blushes. But then Serena’s pulling off her clothes too, and Bernie is the one who is slack-jawed. She loved Serena’s body before, plump and fleshy and curvy and beautiful. She still has all those things, but grief and sabbatical have taken a bit of a toll, have added wrinkles and tautness that wasn’t there before, a sort of broken-in feel that didn’t exist a few months earlier. It doesn’t matter how she looks, it’s just good to see her, Bernie thinks to herself.

Serena looks shy, a foreign expression on her face, as she stands before Bernie, wearing nothing but her knickers and a bra. Bernie smiles, pulls on her ratty t-shirt and Serena follows suit. They both get under the covers, no bottoms on except pants, and Bernie luxuriates at the feel of Serena’s bare legs against her own. Serena tucks her feet against Bernie’s calves like always, lets her head fit just below Bernie’s chin. “It’s good to be home,” she murmurs, soft and low, a quiet benediction to let Bernie know that it will all be okay.

*

Bernie has a day off, spends it looking at houses with Serena. They don’t know what they’re looking for, exactly. Serena asked what Bernie wants in a new home and Bernie just shrugs, decides to opt for a rare moment of complete honesty when she says, “You.” Serena blushes prettily and swats at Bernie, tries to regain her equilibrium. 

“I want a big kitchen, I think. Nice for hosting. I want to have people over. I want to let people in.” Bernie doesn’t think for a moment that Serena didn’t let people in before, but knows what she means, knows it’s different to spend time with the people of AAU at Albie’s and to have them in her home. “I want a big tub. One that fits the two of us,” she adds, and Bernie agrees wholeheartedly with that. 

It’s the fourth house that they look at that holds promise. It’s all wood floors and high ceilings and Bernie could see herself in the backyard, the smoke from her cigarette filtering up towards the sky. The realtor leaves them alone to look around, and Serena quirks her eyebrow as they enter the master bath, nods towards the spacious tub. “Want to test it out?” she says, and Bernie laughs, two short, brisk “hah” sounds, but gamely slides into the porcelain basin, clothing still on, and holds her hands up to help Serena into the tub, lets Serena nestle between her thighs. It’s comfortable, it’s warm, it’s cozy. Bernie wraps her arms around Serena’s middle, rests her cheek against Serena’s scalp. They fit together nicely.

Serena wants to place an offer right away, but Bernie says they have to see the two more houses on the realtor’s list. It’s a moot point, though, because Bernie will give Serena whatever she wants, will do whatever it takes to make Serena happy, to make Serena stay. The other two houses are fine, serviceable, but none of them make Serena’s eyes light up, none of them make Bernie feel like they’re stepping into a home. So it’s the fourth house that they place a bid on, and it’s the fourth house that accepts their offer, and it’s the fourth house that becomes theirs.

*

It pains Bernie, but Serena makes them go furniture shopping, says she wants new things, wants things that they both like, that they both picked. Bernie doesn’t say that anything Serena picks is what she’ll pick too. They find a overstuffed sofa, a large bed with a pillowtop mattress, a television that will make Jason happy. Bernie happens upon a kitchen table on the street on her way home from work one day, texts a picture to Serena, and finds herself hauling it to their new house. It’s a bit battered, but it’s beautiful wood, with leaves that fold down and fits just so in the nook of their new kitchen. Bit by bit, they find the things to fill their home, Bernie feigning interest in every shopping trip, in every fabric swatch Serena thrusts her way. 

Bernie thinks about whether or not she’s lying to Serena by pretending to care about this whole process. She just wants to see Serena smile, to see that deep crease on either side of her lips, the glow in her eyes. She’ll do everything, anything, to make that happen. But she still feels guilty about it all, still feels uncomfortable. So one night, she perches on the arm of the sofa across from Serena reading a book, nestled in the opposite corner. “You know I don’t care about any of this?” she asks, and immediately regrets her words, the hurt filling Serena’s face. “I mean that I will like whatever you choose.”

“I want you to choose things too,” Serena says softly.

“I choose you, Serena. Everything else doesn’t matter to me,” Bernie says, because it’s true. Because she thinks Serena is afraid that Bernie will leave, that Bernie won’t want the Serena who’s been damaged by grief and pain and anger. Bernie inelegantly moves across the couch, a sort of half crawl, kneels with a knee on either side of Serena’s legs, places a gentle kiss on her lips. “Whatever makes you happy makes me happy.” She hasn’t said ‘I love you,’ not since the bathroom at the hospital that day, not since Serena threw the words back in her face, but she tries to show Serena the words, tries to make sure Serena feels them, because she doesn’t know when she’ll say them again.

*

There’s a patio, a back garden, and Bernie likes that. They buy a table and chairs, cast-iron so they won’t be affected by the rain. She sits outside in the cool night air, her hoodie wrapped around her body, held close, a cigarette between her fingers. Serena asks, once, why Bernie started again, and Bernie can only shrug, can only say, “Things got hard,” because that’s all she can say. She doesn’t blame Serena, doesn’t hold anyone but herself accountable for the habit, but it’s true that Serena is the reason she picked up smoking again. She wishes she could handle herself better, wishes she coped with things differently. But this is what she’s chosen, this is what she has, and she inhales deeply, lets the smoke slip through her lips, tendrils disappearing into the sky. She catches Serena watching her one night, leaning against the door to the patio, a long wool duster wrapped around her, her eyes glinting. Bernie drops her cigarette into the empty beer bottle she keeps around just for that purpose and stands, walks to Serena, pulls her close, an arm around her shoulders. “I like it here,” she says, and Serena turns into her chest with a smile that Bernie can feel against her collarbones. 

Serena decides to go back to work, but wants to have the people of AAU over before she goes back, wants to make amends in a place that isn’t where she works. She wants to host a house-warming party, but insists that when Bernie invites people, she makes it clear they don’t need any gifts, they don’t need anything but the presence of the people they care about. Bernie sniffs, says she doesn’t know why she has to be the one to invite people when it’s Serena’s party, but Serena catches her hand, pulls her in. “It’s our house,” she says, her voice stern and serious, and Bernie just swallows, nods. 

“It’s our house,” she agrees.

*

Their house is full, noisy, bright, and Bernie doesn’t hate it. She thinks how she’s changed, how when she moved to Holby she kept people at arm’s length, held herself apart from everything, thinks how Serena ignored all those things and pushed her way right in, nestled right in close to Bernie’s heart right from the very beginning. 

She sees Morven and Fletch chatting by the ice chest, each holding a wine glass. She sees Raf sitting with Ella and Theo, Mikey and Evie running around the backyard, chasing each other because Evie pinched Mikey’s arm. She sees Jac and Zosia, set apart from everyone, Jac’s face drawn and serious, like she’s not even sure why she was invited, why she came. Ric is there, with Guy, and Bernie sees Serena laughing at something Ric’s said, sees her head tilt back, that glint in her eye, and feels her heart clench, feels like she’s not solely responsible for Serena’s happiness anymore.

Serena looks across the lawn, catches Bernie’s eye and smiles a wide, beaming smile and Bernie feels blinded by it, almost staggers from the impact, feels the love that Serena has for her emanating across the expanse between them. It was always like this, will always be like this, she thinks, and makes her way to Serena, grabbing a bottle of shiraz along the way, knows Serena’s glass needs a top-off. 

Serena wraps a hand around Bernie’s wrist, hauls her close, almost making Bernie trip, presses a kiss to Bernie’s cheek, her lips chapped and rough and everything Bernie wants, doesn’t even mind that Guy and Ric are watching. “A fine woman,” Ric says, raising his whisky glass in a toast and Bernie raises the bottle, takes a sip right from it, knows Serena is watching the movement of her throat, the undulation as she swallows. 

No one brought presents, but Morven did bring the karaoke machine, says it’s been collecting dust since her tour-de-force performance of “I Got You Babe” with Arthur. There’s a small sigh of sadness that goes around the room, then Fletch says, “Remember when Ms. Wolfe though that was Dusty Springfield?” and they all laugh at that, Bernie too. She’s never been one for music, never been one for remembering singers and bands. But she knows words, so when Serena goes up boldly to sing, “The Tide is High,” Bernie knows what it means, and remembers the song, thinks of the few moments on the roof of the hospital when she slipped Serena’s earbud into her ear and they listened to Blondie sing. Then, it was a goodbye, an admittance of defeat. Now, it’s a memory, something they share, just the two of them.

Then Morven commandeers the microphone, starts singing something slow, and Serena pulls Bernie close, lets their bodies sway together slowly, even though they’re the only two dancing. Bernie doesn’t feel embarrassed, just enjoys the feel of Serena’s thumb rubbing at the nape of her neck, brushing the short hairs there, weaving her hands into the fine strands of her blonde hair. She thinks she might need to dye it again, thinks her roots are bad, but Serena hasn’t said anything, makes no comments except to tell Bernie she’s beautiful.

They don’t dance for long because Bernie does eventually get self-conscious and tense, but she pulls Serena to the bench near the house, settles close to her so their thighs are touching, their shoulders too. “This is nice,” she whispers, because it is. It’s the people she knows, the people she likes, the people who like her. She wishes, briefly, for an instant, that her children would’ve come too, but Cam is in London and Charlotte is on some course at uni that’s taken her to Ireland, which isn’t to say she’d come even if she was in town. There’s been progress on that front, but not enough that Bernie thinks Charlotte would come over on a Friday night to a house-warming party for her mum and her mum’s girlfriend.

Serena kisses Bernie’s cheek, noses her face into position so that they’re looking into each other’s eyes and Bernie thinks of the airport, thinks of the time when she saw Serena after so much time had passed, and leans in to kiss her, doesn’t think about anyone else. It’s not until she hears a slightly Scottish catcall that she remembers they’ve got guests all around. Her face pinks, and she pulls away just in time to see Serena smirk. 

“Oh, who cares?” Serena asks, threads her arm through Bernie’s, a guard against the chill. She rests her head on Bernie’s shoulder and hums that quiet contented sound that Bernie’s grown to love. “We’ve had quite a year, Ms. Wolfe, and I don’t see why we shouldn’t celebrate that we’ve made it through.” Bernie nods, her cheek against Serena’s hair, a little coarser now. “I don’t just mean the two of us, separately, made it through,” Serena adds, her voice quieter. “I mean the two of us together made it through.”

“Yes we did,” Bernie says, her voice just as quiet, and she turns slightly, presses a kiss to Serena’s scalp. “Yes we did.”

*

People slowly start to drift away, and it’s only until they’re alone that Serena says she wishes Jason would’ve come. “I don’t think it’s particularly his scene,” Bernie says softly. “Let’s invite him round for fish and chips some night. Maybe an episode of Countdown. It’s probably been a while since he’s thoroughly beaten someone.” She doesn’t say that sometimes she and Jason watched Countdown while Serena was away, that she and Jason built a patchwork bridge to cross the abyss Serena left behind. She just reminds Serena that Jason will come around, in his own time, in his own way, and Serena just murmurs her thanks. 

They go upstairs, to their bedroom, leaving the mess of the party for the morning. The windows are open, all around their bed, the curtains wafting softly in the breeze. Serena undresses slowly, pulls on flannel pajama bottoms and one of Bernie’s old shirts. Bernie wears just a vest and boxers, so warmed by Serena’s body heat during the night that she needs nothing else. They lay in the middle of the bed, Bernie’s arm wrapped around Serena, her hand resting against the side of Serena’s head, fingers toying with the short strands of her hair.

“I never said how much I liked this,” she says, plucking at a few gray hairs, because she likes it very much, and Serena tilts her head, smiles.

“It’s murder trying to find a good hair salon in a country where you don’t speak the language,” she says by way of explanation, only a tinge of self-consciousness in her voice. She nuzzles right into the crook of Bernie’s neck, hides her face from Bernie’s dark eyes, places a kiss against the long, taut vein there. “But I’m glad you approve.” 

They’ve had sex since Serena’s been back, it’s been rushed and hurried and frantic because they were without it for so long, but tonight, Bernie wants slow, familiar, comfortable. She slides her hand slowly beneath the elastic of Serena’s flannel pajamas, cups her through her knickers and feels a slight wetness, is gratified it takes so little. She toys with Serena ever so slightly, drags her fingers back and forth, hampered slightly by the constraints of the fabric, but she’s not in a rush, she’s not in a hurry, and Serena lays back on the pillows to let Bernie have her way. 

Bernie’s other hand snakes under the t-shirt Serena’s wearing, slides beneath the underside of Serena’s breasts, the skin so warm and smooth, lets her nails scrape ever so slightly against them, and Serena shudders, smiles, lets out a hum of approval. 

She keeps at it for a bit, just slow, quiet, gentle touches, the wetness between Serena’s legs growing, until she’s ready to push aside Serena’s pajamas, to duck her head to the apex of Serena’s thighs, to nibble and suck and bite, to press her teeth into the soft flesh and leave a mark she knows will be purple by tomorrow. Serena arches her back, doesn’t say anything, lets Bernie set the pace, lets Bernie be in charge. And Bernie spells out her name with her tongue inside Serena’s body, licks her signature into Serena’s skin, marks out her territory with her teeth. And when Serena cries out her name, Bernie truly feels like she’s come home.


	19. catch her warm stare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mabra44 sent _I've been waiting for a cute library Berena AU. The keep running into each other there &I keep going at the same times to see each other but it's all stolen glances only. Jason's the librarian and sort of connects the dots. @cuttingonions mainly came up with this, I just squealed and shouted yes all the time at her plot suggestions._
> 
> i haven't watched any scenes from holby city since serena left! aus forever i guess! who knows! libraries are great! okay!
> 
> (fic title from "far away" by ingrid michaelson)

Bernie Wolfe loves a good library. It’s quiet, it’s organized, she can spend hours there without being interrupted. It’s a way she fills her time after her medical discharge, after her time in the RAMC is over. She reads the novels she never had time to on the front lines. She requests articles from medical journals, learns about new protocols that were developed while she was away. She leaves the library every day brimming with new knowledge, with the satisfaction of a day well spent. 

She can afford to take a little time to herself, between physical therapy and adjusting to her new life, and this is how she wants to spend it. The Holby Library is far more preferable to her cold, impersonal flat. She never spent much time furnishing it, she wasn’t on leave very much, so it has simply the basics: a bed, a couch, a small television. Not only has she had to re-learn how to walk, but she’s had to re-learn how to care for herself, how to go grocery shopping, how to plan meals. She even asks the librarians for cookbook recommendations and is only slightly insulted when one of them points her to “The Pleasures of Cooking for One.” She spends the rest of the afternoon poring over the recipes in the reading room, marking pertinent pages with tiny slips of paper, then checks out the book and makes her way home. 

The library staff gets to know her, and smile at her when she makes her way through the doors each morning. They gave her sympathetic looks the first time she arrived, leaning on a cane, but that waned as they became used to her presence. One of the pages, an intense young man who introduces himself as Jason, is the only one bold enough to enquire about her injury, and Bernie tells him quite frankly about the explosion and the surgery. He takes in her answer with a perfunctory nod, as if he’s cataloging all the information he knows about her away in his brain for reference. He spends the next ten minutes asking her about military history and is only slightly put out that she doesn’t seem to know very much.

“Didn’t have much time for research, Jason,” she says, “Spent more of my time worrying about the present.” He doesn’t take offense at her blunt answer, just nods. 

Bernie doesn’t know if Jason has rearranged his schedule, or if he just makes it a point to be present when she’s around, but she suddenly starts seeing more of him. They spend a few minutes chatting in the morning, and around lunch time. He asks about the television she watches, recommends she give “World’s Strongest Man” a go. She finds out that he has Asperger’s, lives with a man named Alan, but that he’s fairly self-sufficient, just insistent on a specific schedule and lifestyle. Bernie understands that, to a degree. She was in the military for twenty years. 

Bernie has her favorite spot in the library, a comfortable chair in a corner with a small footstool. It’s quiet, removed from the main floor, and she’s figured out just the right position to sit in so her back doesn’t start to hurt after half an hour. The librarians start to think of it as her spot too, dropping by as they’re shelving books to say a quick hello, offer a recommendation of a new book or an old favorite. Bernie likes it, likes the routine and the comfort of having people who know her. And then, one morning, she comes into the library, and there is someone sitting in her chair. 

Bernie stops short, like she’s smacked into a glass wall, and stares at the woman. Her brow is furrowed as she’s reading a thick book, the cover crinkly with the plastic protector. Her hair is short, brown, she’s worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and she has one hand resting against her neck, occasionally fiddling with her necklace, rubbing at her skin. 

“Sorry, we didn’t think we could tell her it was your spot.” The quiet whisper of a librarian from behind makes Bernie whirl around, wonder how long she’s been looking at the stranger. 

“It’s fine,” she says, and goes in search of another perfect spot, though she knows it doesn’t exist. Bernie feels distinctly out of sorts for the rest of the day, chastises herself for caring so much about something as silly as where she sits in the library.

-

Serena Campbell has been chased from her own home. Elinor has friends over, during the day, with noisy music, greasy food and loud laughter. Serena is very much trying her best to placate Elinor in every way, and lets her, would rather have a happy, well-fed daughter than the sullen girl who dropped out of university without explanation that showed up on her doorstep a few weeks earlier. She wanders the neighborhood for a bit, but feels like the neighbors will start to wonder when she walks by their home for the third time, so she gets into her car and drives to the library, the only place she can think of to spend her day off from work. 

She pulls a book off the new items shelf and finds a corner tucked away from the main floor, quiet and hidden, and feels more welcome there than she did in her living room just a half hour previous. She’s halfway through the book when she looks up, feels herself being watched, and sees a slightly disgruntled looking woman sitting in another chair, her blonde hair falling in her face, but her eyes definitely pointed in Serena’s direction. She pastes a half-hearted smile onto her face and then goes back into her book. She finds it hard to concentrate, looks up through her eyelashes, furrows her brow to try to get a better look at the cranky woman staring at her. Messy curls, distinctive nose, dark eyes, long fingers. Those fingers are worrying the page of the latest issue of  _ The Lancet _ and Serena thinks that if it were a man, she’d go over and flirt her way into conversation, maybe even get him to buy her a coffee. But instead, it’s a woman who appears to do nothing but glower, and so Serena goes back to her book and does her best to surrender to the narrative. 

Serena cedes control of her home during her daytime off-hours, starts going to the library more and more often. She couldn’t remember the last time she sat and read for any great length of time, and to almost finish a book in a single afternoon was unheard of in her life. She checked out that first book, and it took her almost a month to finish it, sitting on her bedside table, collecting dust. So she made a vow to herself to visit the library. The second time she comes, the blonde woman is sitting in the chair she’d occupied the time before, so Serena makes herself comfortable in another spot, and only looks at the other woman four times throughout the two hours they’re both there. People come up to talk to her, a page with a small cup of coffee for her and a cup of juice for him, one of the librarians with a new book that the other woman takes with a small smile. Somehow, this cranky woman has ingratiated herself with the library staff. Serena wonders how long it takes, how many times she has to come to the library before she, too, starts getting these privileges.

It turns out three visits is the minimum, because the coffee-bearing page comes up to her just as she’s settling in with an old  _ Cat Who _ book she can’t remember having read. “You like mysteries?” he asks without preamble, and Serena looks up over the edge of the book at him, an eyebrow raised. 

“Well enough,” she says, then closes the book around her forefinger, marking her page. “What do you like to read?” 

“Histories, mostly. Non-fiction, definitely. I’m reading Churchill right now, but I’ve noticed a few factual errors. I suppose that comes from being a personal account.” He shrugs. “I’m Jason.” Serena notes that he doesn’t hold out his hand for a shake.

“Serena Campbell. Pleasure to meet you.” She doesn’t hold her hand out either, and Jason stands up as abruptly as he sat down, leaves her alone to her reading.

The next time she comes, she’s able to get what she thinks of as the best chair in the place, the one she seems to share with the mysterious blonde. Jason comes up to her with a few mystery novels, sets them next to her. “These are less predictable than the  _ Cat Who _ books. At least that’s what the Amazon reviews say. Bernie will be mad.” The two sentences are disconnected and Serena reels a little as she tries to catch up to his train of thought.   
“Who’s Bernie?” she asks, but thinks she knows the answer even as she says it.

“She’s the other old woman who comes here to read,” he says and Serena tries not to be miffed at being labeled an old woman.

“Messy hair?” she asks and Jason nods with a small smile. As if on cue, Bernie appears in Serena’s sightline. “I suppose this is her chair?”

“The library owns the chair. But she does sit here with some regularity,” Jason says and Serena sighs, stands, willing to cede the perfect chair to the woman who was here first. 

Bernie makes her way over to them, says hello in a low voice that Serena likes very much right at the start. She holds her hand out instantly. “Serena Campbell. Jason says you come here often.” She almost closes her eyes in embarrassment because it sounds like a line. But Bernie just huffs out a small chuckle and slides her hand into Serena’s, her skin smooth and cool, and Serena notes those long fingers have a firm grip.

“Bernie Wolfe. And only if you think every day is often.” It’s Serena’s turn to laugh at that, and it’s only after a beat that she realizes they’re holding hands longer than is probably considered usual for a perfunctory handshake. 

“Well, it’s also come to my attention that I seem to have stolen your spot. Please, be my guest. I should be heading home.” She doesn’t think it’s important to say that she’s only been here for fifteen minutes, just picks up her stack of books from Jason. Bernie doesn’t say anything, doesn’t argue the fact that it’s her preferred spot, doesn’t try to convince Serena to stay. She just stands and watches Serena leave, sits down only when Serena’s made it to the circulation desk, checking out her new books. 

-

Bernie dances around Serena for the next few weeks. She isn’t there every day, just once or twice a week. Jason tells her that Serena’s a surgeon, comes here on her days off. Bernie wonders why she doesn’t read in her own home, but decides to let Serena have the good chair at least once a week, settles into another corner of the library, conveniently situated in such a way that she can still see Serena, can watch the woman read, doesn’t let herself wonder why she’s so interested in this other woman.

Serena is the one to break the ice, sitting down next to Bernie with two small coffees. It’s Bernie’s second-choice spot, two chairs with a small table and lamp in between them. There’s a shelf of magazines that keeps it slightly sectioned off, and feels almost as quiet and secluded as the sole chair across the floor. “Didn’t know what you liked,” Serena says, nudging one of the cups towards Bernie. “Strong and hot is all I care about.”

Bernie smiles, knows it’s tight-lipped and doesn’t look entirely friendly, but thinks that fifty is too late to change how she smiles. “I miss the days when coffee was just coffee. Cheers,” she says, taking a sip and enjoying that there’s no sugar or milk mixed in to dull the flavor. 

Bernie tries to think of something to say, something to ask, but feels like her brain is empty, like she’s unable to come up with a single normal thing one person would ever ask another. Serena doesn’t seem to have that compunction, just asks Bernie what she’s reading, why she comes to library, has an endless stream of questions that don’t feel invasive or intrusive and all Bernie has to do is answer them and occasionally say, “And what about you?”

Jason was right, Serena is a surgeon, and she’s more than a little impressed with Bernie’s background in trauma surgery, and says so. Bernie wonders what it’s like to be so free with one’s words, to be so open. Serena talks with her hands, with the gentle touches to Bernie’s shoulder, her knee. Bernie feels a little flush when Serena touches her, thinks it might just be that it’s been so long since she’s had any sort of meaningful contact. So she just drinks her coffee, and lets the conversation wash over her. 

It becomes a regular thing, Serena bringing her coffee. Her schedule is variable, but she can always count on Bernie to be at the library when she is. Sometimes pastries accompany the coffee, but the one thing that is a constant are the drinks. Bernie wonders if Serena uses it as a bribe to get Bernie to talk, to open up. She wonders if Serena knows she doesn’t need a bribe. 

Bernie learns about Serena’s daughter, unfocused and uncaring, moving back home after an unsuccessful stint at university. Serena is trying to cope, not sure where she went wrong, doesn’t know how to relate to a daughter who lacks the motivation her mother, who holds both an MD and an MBA, has in spades. Bernie doesn’t have any advice, but is simply happy to listen, thinks maybe Serena doesn’t have anyone else to talk to. 

Jason joins them sometimes, or just stops by to shush them when Serena makes Bernie laugh too loudly, a donkey’s bray she can’t hold back. It’s a reminder that they’re in a library, whatever else goes on. Bernie finds she reads less and less, but doesn’t think she minds in the least. 

Bernie starts to think of Serena as a friend, as one of her close friends. And she thinks Serena must feel the same, or why else would she come back week after week to ply Bernie with coffee and gentle touches that slowly draw Bernie into her orbit, that open Bernie up like a flower to Serena’s questions. She thinks she might never be able to hide anything from Serena, because all it takes is a warm glance from those honeyed eyes and words just trip off Bernie’s tongue in a way they never have before. 

It’s Jason who gets them out of the library and into the coffee shop, after they have a noisy disagreement about the hypothetical treatment of a hypothetical patient. Bernie is all for trauma and quick patches and Serena is more methodical and diagnosis-focused. Bernie thinks their styles are perhaps complementary, but not necessarily in line with each other. But Serena isn’t put out by their argument, just looks flushed with the enjoyment of a good back and forth and it’s the first time Bernie lets herself think how pretty Serena looks. She must have an odd expression on her face because Serena blinks, her eyes a little wider than normal. And then Jason swoops over to them to chastise them for raised voices. “The coffee shop is just at the front. Why not sit there and be as loud as you want without disrupting the patrons?” he says, a little condescendingly, but Bernie supposes they deserve it. 

-

Serena finds herself looking forward to seeing Bernie more than anything else in her life. It allows her to escape from her home, allows her a respite from work. Bernie feels like an equal, even though she’s not currently working in medicine. But she’s stayed up to date on procedures and conferences, and asks Serena questions about her work that make Serena think and rethink things in important ways. She starts to plot out a different way of handling trauma intake because of a conversation she has with Bernie. It’s rare that she has a friendship that makes her better at her job. 

They start planning a weekly meet-up in the coffee shop at the front of the library, more to appease Jason than out of any real hankering for the croissants or the coffee. When they’ve finished, they either go their separate ways, or they head to the two chairs where Serena first brought Bernie coffee and settle in for a good, quiet read. 

Jason sometimes joins them for their weekly coffee time, once he learns their new schedule. Serena doesn’t mind it, has developed an affection for the blunt young man, who always says what’s on his mind and never seems to feel any embarrassment about it. They’re drinking their coffees one day, Jason with a cup of tea, pale with milk, and Serena, without thinking, brushes back Bernie’s hair as she’s about to take a sip. “I-I didn’t want it to get in your coffee,” she stutters, because she’s not sure why else she did it, can only really think about how soft Bernie’s hair is, how smooth it felt against her fingers. 

“She thinks your hair is quite messy,” Jason says, taking a sip from his own cup and Serena’s face turns bright red then, and she darts her gaze to Bernie, to see how she’s taking this pronouncement. Bernie chuckles slightly, a dry noise that makes Serena think she’s not offended.

“I don’t - well - well, it is messy. But - but I like it,” she says, rather lamely, and Bernie just smiles, the small close-lipped smile that tips up the ends of her mouth like a small bow. Her cheeks are pink, and Serena feels flushed for a different reason altogether. 

She has the day off, so she follows Bernie into the library, and they sit in what has become their usual spot. It seems all the other regular library patrons recognize it as such at this point, and leave it alone. Bernie even admits she’s forgone the perfect chair for this spot instead, says that Jason lets her leave books and magazines here sometimes, so long as they aren’t items in high demand. 

“I can’t believe anyone but you or me is after  _ The Lancet, _ ” Serena says and Bernie nods, with a fond expression on her face that Serena quite likes.

When Serena is in bed at night, she thinks back to that fond expression on Bernie’s face, how everything softens, and her strange features become truly beautiful. She thinks about that soft, wavy hair, and how it felt against her fingers. She bites her lip and turns on her side, shuts off the light, tells herself not to think about Bernie Wolfe in bed again.

Serena feels wrong-footed when she sees Bernie two days later, almost doesn’t go to the library at all, but doesn’t know where she’d go instead, thinks she’d rather have an awkward encounter with Bernie than not see her at all. Bernie is nose-deep in a book, doesn’t even hear Serena come up, and it’s only when Serena clears her throat that Bernie pulls her head from the tome. She smiles, her face breaks open like sunshine, and Serena staggers slightly at the effect.  _ She’s beautiful _ \- the thought comes unbidden into her head, and she knows her cheeks are pink, her mouth open, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself, feels a little wobbly inside, because what do you do when you develop a crush on your best friend. That’s what it is, she thinks, just a silly little crush brought about by too much pastry and soft lamplight. She’s stood staring for too long because Bernie looks concerned, like she’s about to stand up to make sure Serena’s all right. So Serena pulls off her scarf, tosses it over the back of the chair next to Bernie and steals the copy of  _ The BMJ _ that Bernie’s got on the table between them. She burrows into it and pretends not to notice the quizzical look Bernie gives her. She only looks up to ask if Bernie’s read the article about a trauma bay opening up in a Kiev hospital and makes herself look at Bernie’s forehead and not meet her eyes. 

When she’s had enough, when she can only pretend to read the same page four times because she’s so distracted by Bernie, Serena clears her throat and stands. “That’s it for me today, I think,” she says and Bernie looks up, startled from her reverie. She nods, bids Serena a good afternoon, and Serena feels silly for wishing Bernie’d say something else, but she’s been so strange today that she can hardly fault Bernie for being taciturn. So instead she just turns on her heel and walks away. 

She’s brought to a stop in the entranceway when she hears Bernie call her name, and allows herself a brief fantasy of Bernie pulling her around and kissing her, before shaking the thought from her head and turning at the sound. “Your scarf,” Bernie says, a little breathlessly, and moves in close, drapes it around Serena’s neck, her hands resting on Serena’s lapels for a moment. And then Serena, with every reckless bone in her body, leans in to kiss Bernie’s cheek, rests her face against Bernie’s for the briefest of seconds before pulling back.

“Have a good evening,” she says, her voice soft and hoarse and unfamiliar, and she leaves before Bernie can have a chance to register her burning cheeks. 

-

Bernie replays the feeling of Serena’s face against hers, of Serena’s soft lips on her cheek. She finds her gaze drifting past words on the books in front of her, turning pages without taking anything in. She has to start one particular passage over five times. She tries to concentrate, tells herself it’s nothing, it’s just what people do, that they’ve never been in a situation where it would’ve been appropriate to bestow that gesture before. But she thinks of Serena’s flushed face, of her dark eyes, of those lips - oh those lips - and thinks there might be something more.

She sets the book aside, not even content to pretend anymore, and makes herself think about what it would be like if Serena wanted something more. If she herself wants something more. She’s had her share of flings throughout the years, a long stint with a man named Marcus who left when he realized she wasn’t going to give up the RAMC for him, but she’s never been more than friends with a woman. She gets a funny feeling in her stomach as she thinks about kissing Serena, kissing Serena  _ on the lips _ . A funny feeling that is reminiscent of desire, of attraction, of want. 

It scares her a little, because she likes the way things are with Serena, likes having a friend. Doesn’t have very many. She doesn’t want to spoil things, doesn’t want to ruin them, and there’s the voice at the back of her head telling her she may be mistaken, that it’s all in her head, just a hallucination brought about by smiles over coffee and the way Serena looked when she told Bernie she liked her hair.

So she avoids the library, stays away for two whole weeks, misses two coffee dates with Serena. She only goes to the library when she’s absolutely certain that Serena won’t be there, the Monday afternoons when she has a regularly schedule meeting. Jason watches Bernie as she walks in, his gaze penetrating and judgmental, and Bernie goes to her original spot, with only one chair, alone and quiet and uninviting. She doesn’t want to know what Jason has to say to her.

“She thought you might want to read this,” Jason says without preamble, startling Bernie, and roughly holds out a copy of  _ The BMJ _ with a post-it stuck in one of the articles. “It’s not archivally sound to put sticky notes on the periodicals, but the reference librarian allowed it,” he adds, with a slight roll of his eyes, and Bernie takes the magazine.

“I’ll be very careful when I remove it,” she promises, very seriously. Thinks she might tear the page if she were pulling it off in her own home. She flips to the marked page and it’s an article about how diagnosticians and trauma surgeons can be efficient co-leads in hospitals, that their skill sets work together well. She feels the warm feeling spread through her stomach again, the wobbly feeling that overtakes her when she thinks about Serena now. 

“She misses you,” Jason says matter-of-factly, “but I think she’s also angry that you stood her up.”

“It wasn’t a date, I didn’t stand her up. I was busy.” Bernie is lying and she knows Jason knows she’s lying, because she’s said more than once that she doesn’t have a lot to fill her days. He just rolls his eyes again. 

“You should exchange phone numbers so you can call her when you’re busy,” is all he says and walks away, leaving Bernie with the article that all but spells out the fact that she and Serena work well together, that even one of the most prestigious medical journals has the science to back up their complementary personalities. 

She leaves the post-it note in the magazine, writes her phone number on it and a small x followed by a B, hands it back to Jason when she leaves, asks him to give it to Serena if she’s in before Bernie is. He sighs, as if he doesn’t understand why she’s being difficult, and Bernie knows she deserves it, knows she could just make the effort to be there whenever Serena might show up. 

She goes home, eats a quiet dinner, tucks herself in bed, and in the morning, wakes up to a text message from Serena. “Stopped in to the library after work. Nice surprise. See you Thursday? x” 

There’s no name at the end of the message, but Bernie knows who it is and is warmed by the sight of it. She types back a “Yes - same time as usual,” and flops back on the pillow, a smile on her face.

-

Serena is early to the coffee shop. She has on a new blouse, new lipstick, even went for rouge and mascara. She feels fluttery, young, on edge. She feels excited, too. Opening the magazine to see Bernie’s phone number felt like it did all those years ago when the boy she liked passed her a note in class. But this feels more important by a mile, and she carries the warm feeling around her heart like a banner, can’t keep the smile off her face.

She arranges herself at a table near the back, orders the usual two coffees, splurges on a pain au chocolat that she thinks she and Bernie can share. And then Bernie is in front of her, looking like she’s just come from a run, her hair a messy halo, her cheeks pink, slightly out of breath. And Serena is hit square in the chest by the thought that she is beautiful. It almost takes the wind out of her. She stands, almost as tall as Bernie, and leans in to kiss her cheek. “Hi,” she says shyly, and gestures to the empty chair. They’ve done this so many times before but it feels different and new now, and Serena sits on the edge of her seat, her hand jittery and tapping out an arrhythmic melody on the table. Bernie stills her fingers, rests her hand atop Serena’s, her hand just as smooth and cool as it was all those weeks ago when they first shook hands. 

“You know that when I first met Jason, he referred to us both as old women?” she says, a sort of forced cheeriness to her tone in an attempt to balance out her nerves. Bernie laughs that donkey bray laugh that is so endearing to Serena, and doesn’t take her hand away from Serena’s. 

It takes a few moments, a few false starts to the conversation, and then all of a sudden they snap back to who they were, like Bernie never missed two weeks of companionship, like they’re the friends they’ve been all along, but behind it all is the hidden knowledge that they both want something more. It butts up against Serena’s consciousness like a boat moored at a dock, and she stutters over her words more than once, so aware of Bernie’s hand on her own. She gets the courage to turn her hand over, so they’re palm to palm, to slide her fingers next to Bernie’s, to entwine them. Bernie smiles.

“We could, uh, look for a book together?” Serena says, wishing it hadn’t come out as a question. Jason gave her a recommendation the last time she was in, but said it was on the shelf. He’d offered to get it for her but she’d declined, saying she was just as able to retrieve a book as the next person. Bernie nods, stands without letting go of Serena’s hand, and Serena feels warm all over, giddy and happy. 

They wander up the stairs to the second level, where there are shelves and shelves of books, and Serena leads the way, before finally reaching the right aisle. She’s running her finger along the spines, looking for the right call number when she feels Bernie behind her, feels Bernie’s breath on her neck, has never felt so grateful for short hair. She turns, and Bernie is right there, close and warm and real, and pressing Serena into the shelves, nuzzling her slightly with her nose, tilting her face up, then kissing her, light, quick pecks, and it’s Serena who caresses Bernie’s face with her hands, pulls her mouth in, pulls her in, and kisses her long and deep. “Sorry,” she says, when she leans back, her head resting against the books. She can feel her lipstick smeared slightly around her mouth. Bernie’s lips look well-kissed, pink and worn, remnants of Serena’s lippie on them. 

“Are you kidding?” Bernie asks, “I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks.” That admission, that honesty, makes Serena wrap her arms around Bernie’s back, reel her back in, hold her close, and slide her tongue into Bernie’s waiting mouth. They stay like that for a long time, too long, most likely, and Serena thinks she’ll just buy whatever book it was that Jason recommended, thinks everything but Bernie Wolfe has been erased from her mind. 

They only break apart when there’s a cough at the end of the aisle. “Not to, ah, interrupt,” one of the librarians says, her face pink and embarrassed, and she’s not quite able to look at Bernie or Serena in the eye. “We do have cameras around the stacks here.” The implications of that make Serena’s face turn bright red and she buries her face in Bernie’s shoulder - which is shaking with ill-contained laughter.

“I assume they’re erased at the end of every workday?” she asks, and Serena wonders at her calm, thinks it must be something to do with being a trauma surgeon, and can’t bring herself to unearth her face from Bernie’s shirt. The librarian answers in the affirmative and excuses herself. Bernie’s hand comes up to Serena’s chin, tips her head up so they can look each other in the eye. “All right?” she asks, and Serena can only nod.

“Maybe just a little embarrassed to be caught. I feel like a teenager.”

“Oh?” Bernie’s eyebrow is raised and Serena can only think how good that particular expression looks on her face. “Made out in the library when you were at school, did you?” 

Serena’s face is pink again. “Once or twice. This puts them all to shame, though,” she reassures Bernie. “Youthful indiscretions are no match for old-fashioned experience.”

“Look who’s calling us old now!” Bernie says, with mock indignation and Serena laughs, lets herself be led out of the stacks, doesn’t look around as they leave the library, doesn’t know when she’ll be able to look at any of the library staff again. 

Bernie pulls Serena to a stop once they’re out of the building, standing in the car park. “Are you okay?” she asks, her face so serious and solemn and Serena reaches up to caress Bernie’s cheek. 

“Yes,” she says simply, because she is. Somehow it doesn’t matter that Bernie’s a woman, that she’s in her fifties and is discovering something new about herself, any of it. All that she knows is that Bernie’s mouth is a dream. She reaches up to kiss Bernie again, soft and quick and sweet. 

“Finally,” comes Jason’s voice from over her shoulder. She pulls back from Bernie in time to see Jason wave to a man she assumes is Alan, and then he turns back to them. “You’ve taken ages. There was a bet going on how long it would take you two to get together.” Bernie chokes out a laugh and Serena can’t stop a strangled noise from escaping her lips. 

“Who won?” she asks archly, feeling the urge to stomp her foot. 

“I did,” he says with a wide grin and a wink, and ducks into the library. 

“I think he might’ve cheated,” Bernie says, when she’s gotten over the shock of being the subject of library gossip, and Serena leans into Bernie with a laugh, lets her whole body lean against Bernie’s, loves the feel of it as Bernie’s arm wraps around her shoulders.

“Dinner?” she asks.

“Tonight?” Bernie says, kissing the side of Serena’s head, and Serena can feel Bernie breath in the scent of her shampoo.

“My place,” she confirms, and her eyes are dark when she meets Bernie’s gaze. Bernie smiles one of her tight little smiles, her face happy and content, and Serena feels her heart swell. 

“You can tell me what you think about that  _ BMJ _ article,” Bernie says, removing her arm from around Serena so they can walk more easily.

“Oh, my darling,” Serena says, resting her hand in the crook of Bernie’s elbow, her voice full of promise, “I hardly think we’ll be reading.”


	20. old rivers grow wilder ev'ry day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _anon asked for: Serena is the bacelorette, after the initial first episodes (rose ceremonies?) She meets the sister of one of the contestants: Bernie, after she spots her dropping something off for her brother or something. Needless to say Bernie keeps popping up and Serena confides in her and next thing she knows Bernie's made it to the final rose ceremony!!!!_
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> this isn't exactly that, but it's close? serena gets talked into being on a bachelor-type show, and bernie works as a producer! think "unreal" meets "the bachelor" meets "holby." idk. who ever knows!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from “Hello in There” by John Prine which is the saddest song so don’t actually listen to it.

_Raf signed you up without telling you. This is not who you are._ Serena Campbell kept reminding herself of those two facts as she pulled on the fancy floor-length evening gown and let a woman whose nametag read “Crystal” put bright red lipstick across her mouth and dust her cheeks with rouge. She looks unfamiliar to herself in the mirror, smokier eyes, daring lips pulled up in just the hint of a smirk. “He’ll eat his heart out,” Crystal says with a reaffirming pat on the shoulder as she moves away to tend to the next woman.

Serena smooths her hands down her front, the silkiness of the black dress a calming feeling against her palms, which feel a bit clammy, a bit sweaty. “Almost ready?” A husky voice comes from behind, and Serena looks at the reflection of one of the producers in the mirror. She’s tall, slim, messy blonde hair, a headphones with an attached microphone settled in her ear, curving around her smooth, slightly tanned cheek. _Bernie_ , Serena thinks. The woman she’s been assigned to. She and three other women will do their interviews with Bernie, will be guided through this process by her.

This process. _Happily Over the Hill._  What a truly terrible name. A dating show created for people over fifty - Serena just barely qualified, something she reminded Raf of after he revealed that he’d entered her, told her she’d made it past the first round. Somehow she’s found herself a contestant to find true love with some over-50 bloke she’s never met. She can’t think how Raf talked her into it. Too many bottles of shiraz, no doubt. At any rate, she’s here now, she has deluxe accommodations for the next month or so, and all her meals provided. There’s a pool, and a wine bar, and twenty other women her age or a little older to keep her company.

Serena blames the existence of this show on _The Last Tango in Halifax_ , something that made British television networks think there was an untapped market for watching the elderly fall in love. Of course, they didn’t want a bunch of octogenarians running around, potentially breaking hips, so they settled for a crowd of women in their fifties and early sixties, with a silver-haired bachelor of fifty-nine the object of their would-be affections.

She’s met some of the other women, and they all seem nice and kind and well-meaning. She doesn’t think there’s anyone too awful in the bunch, though she supposes the cameras aren’t rolling yet. She hears a cough and thinks she’s been stuck in idle reverie for a bit too long, because Bernie is shifting uncomfortably behind her.

“Yes, I’m ready,” she says, and stands, balancing adroitly on the heels they’ve given her, a bit of leopard print, just barely hidden by the dress. She likes the little bit of her personality she’s been able to retain, a piece of herself behind the mask of make-up that’s been painted on her face. Bernie smiles at her and gestures for her to lead, down the hallway, towards a waiting limousine to bring her to the gates of the mansion.

\- - -

Serena sits in the back of the long black car, folds her hands in her lap, and leans her head back against the seat rest, closes her eyes, tries to think of how she’s ended up here. She supposes she shouldn’t have complained about her love life, or rather lack thereof, to Raf so much, and she thinks she might’ve made an offhand comment about “wouldn’t life be easier if I could just go on one of those dating shows?” that he obviously took far too seriously. And time went by and then he gave her a bottle of wine and broke the news that she was in a pool of thirty or so women to be on this new show to help old people find love. She’d glared at him for that. “I,” she’d said rather haughtily, “am not old.”

“It’s called ‘Happily Over the Hill,’ Serena. It’s not for young sprites.” Serena had simply rolled her eyes and refilled her glass of wine. And eventually, after more than one bottle had been consumed, Raf talked her into meeting with the producers. And so she’d gone, dressed in nothing fancier than her work clothes, barely even running a brush through her hair, but her intrinsic charm was seemingly undeniable, and she got a call a week later saying she’d been cast, if she was still interested.

“You’ll have to negotiate for my time off, sir,” Serena told Raf, not willing to call in her favors, not willing to waste them on a silly reality television show. And somehow Raf had done it, and she had her schedule cleared for six weeks, and was told to enjoy her time away, that it was well-deserved, and the hospital would do its best to run smoothly in her absence.

She’s found herself missing the calm routine of her work at Holby City Hospital, the charting and paper signing. She misses surgery, too, the feeling of a scalpel in her hand, even the silly goggles on her head. But she’s in this now, and she’s never one to abandon ship, not when she’s committed.

She opens her eyes as the door opens, and another woman comes into the limousine, clad in a skintight blue gown, her hair scraped back into a ponytail, her eyeshadow sparkly, and perhaps, to Serena’s mind, a tad immature. But she smiles, holds out her hand. “Serena. Pleasure.” The woman grasps it, a strained smile on her lips. Serena supposes that they are, in this bizarre world, competition.

“Laura.” She settles across from Serena, takes a glass of champagne from where it’s sitting on the small bar, and Serena follows suit, can’t believe she missed its presence earlier. It’s not especially nice champagne, but it’ll do the trick. The car fills up slowly, three other women joining Serena and Laura, and then Bernie appears at the door, tells them they’re about to be taken to the mansion, that she’ll see them there. She pats the top of the car, gives the order to roll out and then, Serena feels, it’s well and truly begun.

Their skirts are all overlapping, there’s a nervous energy filling the air, and none of them seem to know what to say. Serena feels the urge to laugh come over her, feels like a bout of church giggles might overcome her and holds a hand over her mouth, tries to make it look natural. Laura’s looking at her oddly, and Serena just looks out the window, at the nondescript countryside they’re driving through. She’s finished the tiny amount of champagne they’ve been allowed and is just holding the glass in her hand, idly rocking it back and forth between her fingers. It’s almost dusk, the sun just setting, but Serena can see the production lights ahead, knows they’re close.

When the car pulls in, Bernie opens the door, gives them an order in which they’re to make their entrance, and Serena is last. She sighs, is so ready to be out of this car, so ready to just get this over with, wonders if she could bail now, wonders what all those papers she signed just a week ago say about quitting before she’s even met this confirmed old bachelor. Gwen, Tynley, Camille and Laura all make their exits from the car and Serena is left alone, toying with the words she’s been told to say in her mind, a producer-written pun, though Bernie was careful to say that she wasn’t the one responsible.

Bernie appears a final time to tell Serena it’s her turn, holds out her hand for Serena to take and helps her out of the car. Serena gives Bernie’s hand a squeeze, is grateful to have this woman as a rock during this whole ridiculous charade, has found her low voice and even demeanor very calming. Bernie squeezes back, short and quick, just once, and then says, whispers, really, “Good luck. You’ve got this.” Serena pastes a smile on her face and heads towards the courtyard, white lights hanging from the trees. She can hear the murmur of camera people, sees the boom mikes, and then, finally, sees the man whose hand she is supposed to be vying for.

He’s attractive enough, she supposes, that silver fox look, and a slight scruffy beard. He has sharp blue eyes and tanned skin that makes them pop. She smooths her hand down the bodice, getting rid of invisible wrinkles, and walks forward.

“You know, I’m a surgeon - but that’s not the only arena where I’m good with my hands,” she says, and thinks her tone makes it seem like even she hates the words coming out of her mouth. He gives her a good-natured chuckle, holds out his hand.

“Paul,” he says and Serena thinks that it’s a rather generic name, that he’s every bit the British gentleman they advertised, wonders if there’s anything below the surface.

“Serena. And it’s true that I am a surgeon, that wasn’t just a line,” she says, and Paul laughs again, busses his cheek against hers. She wonders if that will make the final edit. His hand is heavy, his grip firm, and Serena doesn’t really hate it, doesn’t even mind the slight scratch of whiskers against her cheek, finds it comforting and familiar.

“I’ll see you inside,” he says, and she lets go of his hand, follows where he gestures, into the house, towards the first night cocktail party she’s been briefed for. Lots of wine, she’s meant to be chatty and happy and charismatic, and the goal is to get some alone time with Paul. Serena tries to get her mind into the competitive spirit, says the mantra Raf gave her silently in her head: _I’m not here to make friends_. He’d laughed as he’d said it, so she thinks there’s a joke there that she’s missed, thinks she won’t say it out loud.

She spots Laura, who gives a curt nod. She’s talking to Tynley and another woman. Serena makes her way to the wine table, pours herself a glass of cabernet, the closest thing they have to shiraz. A smiling, bubbly, red-haired woman comes up behind her, bumps her shoulder slightly. “This feels a bit like a nightmare, doesn’t it?” she asks. “I’m Nancy. And I’m starting to wonder why I’m here.” She has a wide, open face and her teeth show when she talks. Serena thinks she’s quite pretty, thinks if Paul is going on looks alone, Nancy has a fairly good shot.

“Glad I’m not the only one,” Serena says. She sips at her wine, unsure of what to say, of how to engage in small talk, what one says to a potential rival in a reality television competition. “Why did you sign up?” she settles on asking.

“Oh, I was bored at the office one day, and it’s been eons since I’ve been on a proper date, so I just thought ‘what the hell?’” Nancy says with a soft laugh. “I’m a secretary at an accounting firm, hardly the most stimulating work. What brought you here?”

“Oh, a coworker signed me up without telling, then got me drunk and talked me into it.” It’s not the most inspiring story, Serena thinks, not one that will curry her any favor with those who are interested in tales of destiny and true love, but Nancy seems to like it, lets out a full and tinkling laugh and Serena thinks more and more that she’s got to be a frontrunner.

“Serena?” Bernie’s voice comes from behind them and Serena turns with a smile. “Can I pull you for some interviews? Just your impressions so far, your observations?” Serena nods, follows Bernie out to an anteroom.

“What did you think of Paul? Is he attractive?” Bernie asks, reading off a clipboard as if she couldn’t care less about the questions, or even the answers Serena gives.

“Paul is very handsome. His eyes are….very blue.” Serena says. She’s been briefed on reiterating parts of the question in her answers, to not just give a yes or no.

“What do you think of the other women so far?” Bernie asks next, her eyes flit up to Serena’s.

“I’ve not met too many of them yet. Laura, Tynley, Camille and Gwen are all nice. I really like Nancy.”

“Who do you think will get the first impression pin?” Bernie asks, and Serena has to stop herself from rolling her eyes. They can’t use roses, like the Bachelor franchise, so they’ve been told they’ll get pins emblematic of each week they survive, and occasionally special pins will be awarded, such as the first impression pin.

“I think it’ll be Nancy - she’s gorgeous and has got a lovely laugh. If it’s not me, of course,” Serena adds, rather belatedly, tries to remind herself she’s supposed to care very much about getting this pin for herself.

“Good save,” Bernie says sardonically, and Serena chuckles. “I think that’s all I need for now. You can head back in, just make an effort to chat up Paul, yeah?” She’s looking at Serena a little pleadingly, like there’s something more riding on this.

“You’ve got a side bet on me, haven’t you?” Serena asks, her tone only slightly accusing, because she thinks she’d do the same thing if she were a producer. Bernie looks sheepish.

“We each pick our top three. You’re one of mine.” Serena blushes prettily at that, thinks it’s a vote of confidence in nothing more than her looks and personality, that Bernie has no other real basis on which to judge Serena.

“Well, I’ll do my best, if only to save your behind,” Serena says, and reaches out to pat Bernie’s shoulder, rests her fingers there slightly longer than she might otherwise, making the whole exchange a little heavier, more weighted.

“Thanks,” Bernie says, her response a little delayed, her voice a little rougher, and Serena leaves before she says something silly, heads back to the lights and frivolity and wine.

She drinks her way around the room, makes an effort to say hello to every woman, and then places her hand gently on Paul’s arm, pulls him away from a conversation with Candice and Renee to a secluded corner, where she can lean her head towards him, press her lips to his cheek, whisper in his ear that she’s glad to be here. She knows everything to do to charm a man, does it often at work to get her way, can do it in a bar if she wants some attention, will do it for a TV show if it gets her to the next week. She lets her lips stain Paul’s cheek, then rubs her thumb across his skin, pulls slightly at the corner of her mouth, lets her forefingers go behind his ear, just briefly. “Well,” she says, letting her voice go a little breathy, “It was lovely to have a bit of a chat. But I should let you get back to your other admirers.” She’s already gotten used to the cameras following her every move, and she sees Bernie behind one of the operators, winks ever so slightly, and Bernie blushes, gives her a discreet thumbs up.

She doesn’t get the first impression pin, it goes to Hilary, who’s got on a low-cut dress and has had a hand on Paul’s thigh at every moment possible. He says something about their immediate connection, and it’s all Serena can do not to snort at that. Connection very clearly means that he wants to sleep with her, as soon as possible. She lifts a champagne glass in a toast to their first night in the house, and then Paul is whisked away, for endless interviews probably, and the women are left to get themselves to bed, with strict instructions to look well-rested for the next day.

They share rooms, but with six girls going home at the end of the week, Serena thinks they’ll hardly have to double up for long. But Nancy pushes to be in the same room as Serena, and no one seems to mind. It’s good to have a friend, and good to have someone vying for her time, if Paul isn’t going to.

\- - -

She sleeps well enough, can sleep anywhere if she’s tired enough. Nancy snores a bit, but it doesn’t keep her awake. She washes her face in the morning, wonders if she can be trusted to put on her own make-up, or if they’ll be put through the paces of Crystal again. The answer comes when Bernie knocks at the door to let them know to be dressed and ready in five, clean faces for Crystal.

She and Nancy stop to get coffee from the kitchen, and Serena thinks she could get used to having things made for her ahead of time. There’s a tray of scones sitting out on the counter and Serena grabs one, rolls it in a paper towel to bring with her. Her hair is fluffed, her make-up applied lightly - Crystal says it’s more of a casual day look, they don’t need to be as dramatic as the night before. Serena never much bothers with putting stuff on her face beyond a little mascara and lippie, doing a bit more if it’s to impress, and is glad to have someone do it for her.

“Is this every day?” she grumbles to Bernie, who huffs a laugh out, a guttural “hah” sound, and Serena looks at her with raised eyebrows. It’s hardly the most feminine laugh and is a surprising noise to come out of her.

“Every day you’re on camera, anyway. Some days will be filler and you’ll get to just lay about, stay in your pajamas all day if you like,” she says and Serena smiles.

“Those days will be my favorite, I’ll wager.” Bernie just grins back and thrusts her proscribed wardrobe towards Serena, who goes to change, careful to not undo any of Crystal’s handiwork. She’s been given a slightly more form-fitting top, a far cry from the loose blouses she wears to work, but she supposes she’s not trying to win a man when she’s on AAU. She’s got a pair of low heels, too, and they’ve given her the choice between a skirt and trousers. Serena opts for the light grey trousers, thinks she’s not quite ready to wear a knee-length skirt on national television, but thinks that day will come soon enough.

All the women are sat in the large sitting room of the mansion, enough couches for them all, though it’s a bit tight. A TV screen flicks on, and there’s a pre-recorded message from Paul. “Good morning, ladies. I’m hoping to get to know some of you better this week. Laura, hope you’re geared up for some top fun! And Simone, Gwen, Mary, Ruby, Nancy, Serena, Hilary, Chantal and Vivian - it’s time to show me your roots.”

Serena almost misses her name being called, because Laura squeals at the prospect of a one-on-one date with Paul, wonders what on earth they could be doing. Serena restrains herself from dryly stating the obvious and instead turns to Nancy as they congratulate each other for making enough of an impression to go on this week’s group date. The other eleven women look a bit put-out, but Serena’s sure there’ll be another group date before the week is up, though she supposes there might not be. She’s not completely certain how this sort of thing works, thinks she’ll ask Bernie later.

“Good job getting a group date,” Bernie says under her breath as the women break up and head to their rooms to change, or to relax, depending on what’s in store for them.

“Anything for you,” Serena coos facetiously, and Bernie’s face goes a bit pink and she backs away. “Will you be coming along?” she calls over her shoulder and Bernie nods.

“Yes, but later. It is my job, after all,” she says and Serena just shrugs, heads back up the stairs, still holding her coffee cup. Nancy’s in the room - they’ve each been commissioned a pair of denims and more casual footwear, which confirms Serena’s suspicion that gardening will be involved in this group date. She wonders if all the activities are meant to be for pensioners. Not that she doesn’t enjoy a bit of gardening, but it’s not something she has any time for regularly, not with her schedule.

Due to the magic of television, they go off to film the gardening bit before Laura has her solo date with Paul. “It’s supposed to rain a bit tomorrow - they can do cars in the rain, but you can hardly be expected to pot flowers outside in a downpour,” Bernie says, showing Serena the weather forecast.

“Oh, so it’s cars, then. Laura’s absolutely mystified,” Serena says, her voice laced with disdain. She’s never watched an episode of Top Gear in her life, but knew enough that’s what was being hinted at in Paul’s date invitation. Bernie makes one of those guttural laughing noises again, and Serena feels quite pleased with herself. “Cheers for not making me stand around with plants in the rain,” she says, taking her leave to pile into the van with the eight other women accompanying her on the date.

Gardening is hardly inspirational for Serena, but she uses the excuse of dirt on his cheek to get close to Paul, and leans into him slightly, asks him to tell her why he chose the plants he did for his small garden. She considers asking him to help her with her flowers, but thinks she can’t quite bring herself to be that simpering, hopes that being slightly more independent will play in her favor at some point. She does kiss Paul’s cheek and as she pulls away, he catches her lips. She’s only slightly surprised, but responds quickly enough, breaks away when she hears a pot crash behind her. She looks over her shoulder to see a frantic Bernie sweeping pottery shards into a pile and apologizing.

Serena is awarded the coveted group date pin, in the shape of a flower, which means she’s safe for the week. She looks for Bernie, to give her the good news, but can’t find her. Serena supposes she’ll see Bernie later, when it’s time for interviews and observations.

They’re transported back to the mansion and are asked to have social time with all the other women, to talk about their date in positive terms, and the women are encouraged especially to fawn over Serena and her luck in getting the pin. It all seems so artificial, but if fundraising galas have taught Serena anything, it’s that she’s good at ersatz excitement and adulation. She’s been given a glass of wine, excuses herself out to the pool when she’s had enough. They weren’t told they had to stay indoors, and she wants a bit of fresh air, if she’s honest.

She sees Bernie across the yard, talking to another producer, their arms moving animatedly. The other producer points towards the pool, towards Serena, and Bernie throws up her hands, turns on her heel, and walks in the direction of the pointing.

“Hello, stranger,” Serena says, though it’s only been a few hours since they’ve seen each other. She’s already gotten used to Bernie’s presence, even if it’s just behind the cameras.

“It’s time for interviews, if you’re free,” Bernie says, her tone a bit clipped, and Serena stands, a little surprised at Bernie’s distance, but follows to the alcove that’s been reserved for these sorts of one-on-one interactions.

“Did you enjoy the gardening?” Bernie asks, clipboard of questions in hand.

“As much as anyone can really enjoy that kind of delayed gratification,” Serena says wryly, and Bernie smiles a tight smile.

“Can I have an answer we can show on television, please?” she asks, stern.

Serena rolls her eyes, straightens her posture and puts a smile on her face. “I enjoyed today’s outing ever so much. I feel like my connection with Paul got so much deeper and when he kissed me, I saw stars,” she says, in a perfect impression of Elinor’s diary from fourth year.

“If you could be any flower, which would you be?” Bernie asks and Serena chokes on her laughter. Bernie holds up her clipboard, to prove it’s a real question she’s supposed to ask. “It helps humanize the contestants,” she says in a monotone, as if she’s been told this very same thing too many times.

“If I could be any flower, I would be the foxglove,” Serena says. “I always liked it’s Latin name - digitalis. Is it too soon to make another joke about being good with my fingers?”

“Hmm,” Bernie says, but doesn’t ask for Serena to restate her answer. “Is it nice not to have to worry about going home this week?”

“It’s quite nice to have a pin already, it’s true. I plan to get one every week, and to get a sash. I’ll be a regular Girl Guide,” Serena says, a little cheekily, but Bernie lets that slide as well. Serena supposes she’s giving lots of that desired ‘humanity’ to herself. She hasn’t really given a thought to how she’ll be edited, though Elinor warned her not to get on the wrong side of the production staff or they’ll do everything in their power to make her look insane.

“If you just want to talk about some of the other women - is there anyone you particularly like or dislike? Anyone you’re worried about?” Bernie has that disengaged tone again, like it doesn’t matter what Serena says. Serena thinks about saying something ridiculous, saying something just to get Bernie’s attention, to make Bernie notice her. It feels silly, but she doesn’t want to be just another contestant to Bernie. She likes when she can make Bernie smile or laugh.

“All the women seem really nice so far,” is what Serena lands on, a stale platitude because she doesn’t know what else to say. Nancy is the only one she’s spent any amount of meaningful time with. “Do you want me to sound a little catty? Does that help you?” she asks and Bernie looks up, meets Serena’s eyes for the first time since they’ve started this interview.

“Just sound like yourself, Serena. I think I have what we need,” Bernie says, her voice soft, and she’s holding Serena’s gaze. Serena looks back, stares for a beat, for too long, then turns to go.

“Have a good night,” she says, thinks there’s something else she wants to say, but doesn’t know what it is. So all she can do is go back up to her bedroom, because she has the next day free from filming.

\- - -

The week goes by quickly enough, just occasional interviews, sometimes with Bernie, sometimes not. Laura goes on her solo date, comes back beaming and glowing, her lips well-kissed, her smug self-satisfaction through the roof. Serena thinks about making a comment about how having her hair pulled back into a tight ponytail is no substitute for a real personality, but bites it back, thinks she doesn’t need all of England seeing that petty side of her.

It turns out there isn’t another group date, that the ten women who weren’t given a date invitation are just out of luck for the week. Serena tries to calm some of them down, tell them that it might be for their benefit, that they haven’t had time to make a bad impression yet, that Gwen wouldn’t even participate in gardening and came off looking very badly. It calms a few, Susan’s face relaxes for the first time in forty-eight hours, Renee stops downing wine at every opportunity, and Serena feels a little better about herself for being here.

They assemble for the pinning ceremony, a term that makes Serena think of her time in school, and all those American high school movies, all dressed in finery. Serena’s dress is much more form-fitting than the first night, hugs her curves. She puts on a pair of higher heels, is almost Paul’s height in them, and pins the flower to gown. She has diamonds in her ears, her delicate chain around her neck, and a confident smile on her face because she knows she’s not going home.

In the end, they say goodbye to Jennifer, Monica, Chantal, Jane, Candice and Gwen. Serena doesn’t even feel sad, if she’s honest. Gwen and Chantal were stand-offish on the date, and Serena can’t remember any identifying details about the other four women. But now the fourteen remaining women have their pins, and toast to making it through the first week. Serena raises her glass, idly wonders what the champagne budget is for this show. She gives Paul a kiss good night, lets her lips linger on his, smiles as she pulls away, enjoys the slightly smitten look on his face, and then promptly looks for Bernie.

“You look nice tonight,” Bernie says when Serena comes upon her in the garden, sitting tucked away on a bench.

Serena looks down at herself, still feels like a bit of a stranger to herself when she’s all dressed up. “It’s a bit of a departure from the norm,” she says. “Just wanted to tell you to have a good weekend, that I’ll see you later.” She doesn’t know why she cares about seeing Bernie before she goes to bed, before they start this whole thing up again on Monday morning.

“You too,” Bernie says, and she looks down at the mug cupped in her hands. Feeling dismissed, Serena turns on her heel, thinks idly that she can’t wait to take off these shoes, and makes her way into the mansion.

\- - -

Monday morning dawns earlier than Serena would like. The women had decided to stay up late with wine, and Serena finally feels like she’s getting to know the women around her. Besides Nancy, there are three other executive secretaries. Ruby’s an artist, Camille is a schoolteacher, Melanie owns a restaurant, Mary has a tech start-up, Phoebe is a librarian. There’s a wide array of talent and knowledge and schooling present in the mansion, and Serena wonders if this show will treat them as more than empty shells, if they’ll be allowed to show off their experiences and their lives outside of the confines of reality TV. She adds that to her mental list of things to ask Bernie, something she’s started doing whenever she wonders something about the world she’s walked into. Bernie is usually game with her answers, if a bit vague or purposefully obtuse. Serena knows Bernie can’t tell her everything, but is pretty sure Bernie is telling her what she can.

All the women assemble, a little bleary-eyed. They’ve been told they’re allowed to be in their comfortable clothes, their pajamas, that they can have coffee or light breakfast on camera, they just need to have their hair and make-up done beforehand. So Serena gets fluffed up, is almost used to it by now, and sits on the couches with the other women, already noting how much more space there seems to be, even though only six women have gone home.

The video message pops up, and Serena has to admit that Paul does have a nice, kind face. And she feels a small flutter when he says, “Serena - I hope that today, you’ll put me in stitches.” She’s been awarded the elusive one-on-one date this week, which means the other thirteen women will do some activity or other with him over the next few days.

Bernie pulls her aside so they can have a brief interview about how she feels about it all, and Serena honestly says she’s feeling a little excited. It might be that she’s more excited to get out of the house and to go out into the world, to have a little more freedom, than it is about spending time with Paul. She knows better than to say that in front of the cameras, though.

“Bernie?” Serena asks, grabbing at Bernie’s hand when the cameraman walks away and it’s just the two of them. Bernie reaches for her mic, pulls it out of her ear, and turns around.

“Yes?” she asks, her voice getting that soft quality it only gets when they’re alone, and Serena softens at the sound of it.

“I was just wondering if...if this show is just. If this show cares about who we are as women? Or if we’re just meant to be pretty faces and nothing more.” Serena doesn’t think she’s phrased it well at all, but Bernie’s face tells her that she’s gotten her message across. Somehow, it doesn’t necessarily matter what the answer is, just that she gets an answer, knows what to expect.

“I hope you don’t think putting Paul in stitches is about a comedy club, Serena. The plan is to take him through the basic emergency room techniques, showing him how to do stitches and sutures and the like. Production thinks there’s potential for some closeness, wants to capitalize on the obvious chemistry you two have.” Bernie says the last bit a little sourly, especially for someone betting on her, Serena thinks. It’s silly, maybe, that she’s going on a date centered around one of the most boring and mundane parts of her job, but she likes that her background as a surgeon is being highlighted.

She’s allowed to dress casually for the date, denims and a loose shirt. Paul roll up to the front of the mansion in a black car, and she joins him in the passenger’s seat, a cameraman sliding into the backseat, Bernie beside him. Paul leans in to kiss Serena’s cheek, and she smiles at him, lets her eyes sparkle, lets herself try to enjoy this. She holds his hand over the gearshift as they go, and they make idle chitchat about the weekend. Paul makes a few comments that lets Serena know he’s chafing a bit against the seclusion as well, and Serena thinks it must be even worse for him, he doesn’t even have a houseful of other people to talk to, just the employees of the TV show. They pull up to a small medical clinic, closed for the day, and Serena and Paul are led to a room with a mannequin. Production walks them through the specifics of the date, that Serena’s meant to show Paul just how good she is with her fingers, how delicately she can perform surgery, even on a plasticine body.

Paul looks a little grossed out, a little like this is the furthest thing from romance that he’s ever thought of, and Serena almost can’t disagree. But she puts her gameface on, helps him tie a scrub cap over his hair, reaches up behind his head, stands on the balls of her feet, putting her lips just level with his, and they stare at each other for a few moments, their breath mingling. And then Bernie drops her ever-present clipboard and the moment’s broken. Serena takes opportunities to hold his hand in hers, to guide him to the proper stitches, to help his technique. She flirts and makes innuendos, nothing more than what she does every day at work over the operating table. When they’ve played at this for a while, some production assistant dressed as a nurse comes in and presents them with a timed challenge, where they’re meant to race each other. Paul playfully makes attempts to sabotage Serena, throws tools at her, thread, calls out silly insults, and Serena finds herself laughing at him. She still wins, because she’s been trained to ignore distractions, but she gives him a kiss at the end of it, doesn’t even let the squawking of Bernie’s walkie-talkie distract her.

She and Paul go out to lunch afterwards, sandwiches and wine by a body of water that is not identified to Serena. She’s not quite sure where she is in the British countryside, so just lets herself drink the white wine and nibble at the food, and talk to Paul about what his life is like, what her life is like, and even entertains a few silly questions about what their life would be like. She knows it’s the nature of the show, that she should be able to gush about how they’re already falling in love, even though she’s barely spent any time with him, but she’s not willing to talk about moving to London to be with him, not even for a good sound bite. He gives her the one-on-one date pin, uses the trite words, “Will you let me pin you?” and she nods, because that’s the game, and he leans in, his cologne strong, and pins a needle and thread to her shirt, kisses her once, quick and soft, his beard still scratchy, before pulling away.

They drive back to the mansion, Serena kisses his cheek goodbye, and is led to the interview alcove by Bernie. “What did you think about today? Just talk about it using your own words, in detail.”

“I think it was a bit strange, maybe, but Paul and I had a good time. And he’s a fairly good kisser, I suppose that’s something that gets better with age and experience. It was nice to be playful together. I suppose that’s just as important as any other kind of chemistry. You want someone you enjoy spending time with both inside the bedroom and out of it.” She arches an eyebrow, hopes she’s allowed to be as candid as she’s being, wonders if her words will be edited and twisted.

“You’re made for this kind of thing. So good at giving just exactly the right sort of answer that will play well on TV. The audiences will love you,” Bernie says, and gestures to the cameraman that they’ve finished. “Seriously, Serena. It’s like you’re born to be on a reality show. You know just what to say.”

“It’s all for you, Ms. Wolfe. I just want you to win your bet,” Serena says archly, and Bernie laughs, a full laugh, a braying noise that catches Serena off guard, just as her guttural chuckle did. It makes a giggle burble up from her chest, an infectious sound that sets Serena off, and she’s clutching at Bernie’s arm, she’s laughing so hard. She pulls Bernie into a hug, wraps her arms around Bernie, holds her close. “Thanks for that, I needed it. Felt like I was normal for a minute,” she says, her breath tickling Bernie’s hair. She breathes in the scent of Bernie, fresh and clean, feels a flutter in her stomach like the one she felt when Paul called out her name on the video message, and pulls away. “Thank you,” she says again, wipes at her eyes, wet from laughter, and isn’t sure how to end this interaction. Bernie clears her throat, and fiddles with her walkie talkie.

“Any time,” she says finally, and walks away, leaving Serena in the alcove feeling slightly bereft.

The rest of the week is slow, dull. She doesn’t have the group date to look forward, she’s slightly removed from the other women because she’s now had the most time with Paul out of any of them. Phoebe even says she hasn’t had any time alone with him, not even at the cocktail parties. Serena tells her she has to make time, be a little more demanding, even though it’s hard. The group date turns out to be a date where they all play footie against each other at a local pitch, and Serena’s rather glad she didn’t have to go on that one, thinks running about on a field isn’t quite her scene. She’s not out of shape per se, but she’s not interested in wearing shorts and cleats and chasing a ball either.

The women come back sweaty and smiling, and Nancy’s been given the group date pin because she’s the only one who successfully scored a goal, and sealed her victory with a kiss. And there’s more downtime, just the women sitting around the house, poking at the books they’re allowed to read, drinking wine by the pool. Serena didn’t think she’d miss being able to watch the news, but she does, misses it a great deal more than she anticipated, feels so removed from the current events.

There’s an arranged cocktail party for all the women and Paul, and they’re dressed in fancy clothes again. Serena’s gotten used to bright lipstick on her face and smoky eyes. She’s come to recognize this version of herself, even though it doesn’t exactly seem like her. She pins the needle and thread to her breast and walks into the party calmly, no pressure to make a good impression hanging over her head. She accepts her pre-made cocktail and makes rounds, tries her best not to just sit with Nancy in the corner, the only two women who are safe. Phoebe is flitting around, trying to get Paul’s attention, but she’s coming across as immature, desperate, and Serena wishes she knew what to say to get Phoebe to calm down.

Then Paul is pulled from the room and the mood changes, becomes more somber, because they know the pinning ceremony is imminent. They file into the room, Serena standing at the back, taller than most in her heels. One by one, Paul calls out names, until Tynley, Camille, Renee and Phoebe are left without pins. He hugs them each goodbye, walks them all out to the waiting limo, then comes back into the mansion, the sad, serious look gone from his eyes and for the first time Serena wonders how serious he is about this all, wonders if he’s just in it for a quick lay and fifteen minutes of fame, the first over-fifty bachelor on television. She wonders if she can ask Bernie about it, decides to keep it to herself for the time being. She gives Paul a kiss good night, squeezes his hand as she makes her exit from the room, and doesn’t miss the angry, jealous look on Hilary’s face.

\- - -

Her third week on _Happily Over the Hill_ is by far her worst. She isn’t picked for the group date or the one-on-one, is left alone with Vivian. Mary comes back from her date with Paul all atwitter. They’d done something with virtual reality goggles and Mary starts in on the technicalities of it all and Serena almost falls asleep. It was never really her bag, all the new-fangled gadgets. Vivian works as a high-level assistant, the girl Friday to some big corporate CEO that hasn’t given permission to be named on the show. She doesn’t make for the most interesting conversationalist that Serena’s ever met, but there’s enough there to wile away the hours until there’s something for Serena to do.

She really feels the confining nature of the show during the week, really feels the lack of being able to watch television or the latest medical journal. She wonders if there’s been a big breakthrough, if the science of surgery has been changed since she started on this show. She wonders how Ric is handling AAU, wonders what torture she can put Raf through when she gets back. She starts plotting out just how much charting he’ll be doing, just how many rectal exams.

She feels worried for the first time that she might not get a pin this week, having barely seen Paul, but she supposes that’s the nature of the show, that there are ten other women vying for his attention - she won’t get it all the time. But she is competitive, and so she wants a pin. Mary has hers, and Hilary is telling anyone who will listen that she’s going to do whatever it takes to get the group date pin.

Serena is grateful when Bernie pulls her aside for the interviews, is glad to have a conversation with someone who isn’t after Paul, who seems to like her, really and truly. Who probably knows Serena more than almost everyone on the planet because she’s had access to a whole file on Serena’s life and history. “How’s the week been?” Bernie starts, not even looking at her clipboard.

Serena glances at the cameraman, then back at Bernie. “Honestly?” she says, and Bernie gives her an encouraging nod. “It’s hard, not leaving the mansion, just sitting around, doing nothing. I’m starting to miss my real life, I miss surgery and my coworkers, and having something to do every day. I’m glad the other women are getting their chance to get to know Paul, I just wish it wasn’t at the expense of me leaving the house.” She tries not to sound plaintive, but she’s been just plain unhappy this week, and there’s no masking that.

Bernie bites her lip, whispers something to the cameraman, who shuts down his unit and walks away. Bernie takes off her mic, unplugs it from the battery clipped to her hip. She sets down her clipboard and puts her walkie talkie on top of it. “Let’s go for a walk,” she says, holding out her hand to Serena.

Without thinking, Serena takes it, remembers the feel of it from their first meeting, warm and dry and strong. Bernie leads her out a back exit of the mansion, to an expansive lawn to that’s shielded from the pool by large hedges. There’s no cameras, no crew, just the quiet night and Bernie at her side. Serena breathes deep, feels a little freer, just from this. “I know it can get to be a bit much,” Bernie offers, dropping Serena’s hand and Serena finds herself missing the contact. She walks close to Bernie, leans towards her, barely a sliver between their shoulders.

“This is nice,” Serena says quietly, enjoying the fresh air, the stars clear in the sky, away from the city lights. She spots Orion, locates the north star, tries to remember the constellations she was taught in her youth.

“Glad to do it,” Bernie says, her voice just as soft, and her arm brushes Serena’s. They walk in silence for a bit, and Serena shivers. Bernie slips out of her hoodie effortlessly and places it around Serena’s shoulders. “Don’t want you to catch a cold - that’s no way to catch a man.” Serena laughs, a little bleakly, wonders if she and Bernie will be friends when this is over, holds the hoodie close around her, the same clean smell of Bernie clinging to the fabric.

They walk for a little longer, Serena taking big gulps of the fresh air, enjoying the feeling of no cameras, of a person beside her who doesn’t seem to want anything from her but her happiness. She wonders if she’s fooling herself, if Bernie’s just doing this for the show, just trying to placate Serena so she’ll make it to the next round. She doesn’t think that’s Bernie’s style, would like to think there’s a real foundation at the base of their friendship.

Bernie walks her back inside and surprises Serena by pulling her into a hug. She likes the feel of Bernie’s arms around her waist, likes the closeness they share, thinks she’s never had a friend quite like Bernie. “Stay strong,” Bernie whispers, presses a kiss into Serena’s hair. “Wouldn’t want you flaking out on this when you’re almost halfway through.” Serena laughs, quietly, more of a light chuckle, and squeezes Bernie tightly, holds her close for as long as she dares, then pulls away.

“Thank you,” she says, very seriously. “This is just what I needed.”

She wakes up the next morning feeling more than refreshed, feeling a little bit at peace with everything. The day stretches before her, just the cocktail party and the pinning ceremony ahead of her. She lays out by the pool, one of the few books in the house propped up against her legs. Bernie walks past her, more than once. Serena would almost say she seems to be hovering, but she never stops to say anything to Serena.

She’s chastised by Crystal for the slight pinking of her cheeks from the sun, but the freckles that are coming out on her nose are applauded, and Serena can’t help but roll her eyes at that. “One doesn’t come without the other,” she says and Crystal just bats at Serena’s shoulder.

She’s wearing the shortest dress she’s had so far, coming just to her knees, and her heels are tall. She feels a bit on display, but is assured by Nancy that she looks lovely. She smiles when she sees Bernie, but Bernie looks away, down into that clipboard, and not into Serena’s eyes.

The pinning ceremony starts, and Hilary is proudly wearing her pin, won from a dancing lesson group date. Nancy told Serena that Hilary was far from the best dancer, but had again gone for wearing a low-cut dress with no back, and it’s hard to compete with that. Hilary is the youngest woman present, at forty-two, and Serena can’t deny that there’s definitely part of that package that must be attractive to Paul.

With Mary and Hilary safe, half of the women remaining are going home, and that does put Serena on edge. Paul calls Laura’s name first, and she presses up against him, kisses him on the cheek, lets her lips linger. Nancy’s name is called next, and Serena is glad for her friend. It’s Melanie next, and Serena can only hope that the week she’d had prior is enough to take her through this one. She doesn’t quite know why she wants to stay so badly, just knows that she does. She gasps slightly when Paul calls her name, feels awash in relief, and just hugs Paul close. “Thank you,” she whispers in his ear, lets her lips rest against the lobe, then pulls back, lets him pin her. She turns and sees the sad faces of Simone, Vivian, Susan and Ruby, and can’t quite find it in herself to care. She wonders if that makes her callous. She turns, sees Bernie over Paul’s shoulder and gives her a wink, one Bernie slyly returns, and Serena feels a blush rise to her face, chalks it up to the wine and champagne and the relief over making it to the fourth week.

\- - -

The fourth week is a two-on-one date, and a group date. Serena knows the reputation of the two-on-one, that one of the two women will go home at the end of it. The usual Monday morning video invitation comes, and Paul appears, inviting Hilary and Melanie to explore the forest with him, and Serena thinks she’d better say good-bye to Melanie now, because there’s no way Hilary’s ceding her place in the competition.

The rest of the women settle in for the afternoon after the pair leaves, and Serena and Nancy sit together in the living room, on either end of the couch. “Do you think you can love him?” Nancy asks, her legs crossed in front of her, her hands clasped in her lap. Serena leans against the back of the couch, thinks of the feeling of his mouth against hers, thinks of that scruffy beard scraping against her cheek, thinks of it scraping against her thighs. And then, out of the blue, the feeling of Bernie’s body against hers, their close hug, flies into her head, and she feels the flush of attraction flood her body.

“I think so,” she lies, and for the first time lets herself think that she might not be invested in staying because of Paul, but doesn’t know exactly what that means.

“Me too,” Nancy agrees. “If I don’t win, I want you to.”

“Agreed. Or anyone, really, except Hilary. I think Paul deserves better than Hilary,” Serena says, feels a bit petty and catty for saying it, but she really doesn’t like Hilary, hasn’t since that first night when she got that first impression pin.

“She’s probably eating Melanie alive on their date right now,” Nancy says and Serena laughs, thinks it’s more than likely true, is just glad she wasn’t selected for the two-on-one date, thinks it was production’s way of getting rid of Melanie, who hasn’t made much of an impact in the time she’s been here. She makes a vow to herself to visit Melanie’s restaurant when this is all over, in exchange for these uncharitable thoughts.

Laura and Mary are sitting by the pool, and eventually Serena and Nancy join them. They all agree there’s no way Melanie’s coming back from the date, even if Hilary hates hiking. Serena likes this, passing time with these three other women. They’re all about her age, they’ve all achieved things in their lives, they all have interesting things to say. Whatever else happens, Serena thinks, she’s grateful for this.

Bernie walks past, signals for Serena to follow her, and Serena does, without a second thought, just stands up and excuses herself from the group. Thinks she’s never implicitly trusted anyone the way she trusts Bernie.

“How are you feeling today?” Bernie asks, when they’re alone, secluded, apart from the cameras and production staff. She leans against the wall, and Serena tries not to let herself think about how casually attractive she looks. Tries to remind herself that she’s here to woo Paul.

“I’m good. Good,” Serena says, feeling a little flustered. “How - how are you?” She thinks about leaning against the opposite wall, knows she won’t be able to manage it with the same unschooled elegance that Bernie does, so settles for standing, her arms crossed loosely around her stomach.

“Good,” Bernie says, her eyebrow arched, her gaze sardonic. “Just wanted to prep you for the group date. You’ll be horseback riding. There’s jodhpurs and boots waiting for you in your room. Bet you’ll look a right sight with a helmet on.” Her eyes are laughing, even if her mouth is serious, and Serena can’t help but chuckle.

“I haven’t been on a horse since I was eleven and my mum paid for a pony ride at a carnival!” she splutters, and Bernie laughs properly at that. “Perhaps it’s just like riding a bicycle?”

Bernie looks like she’s about to say something, but changes her mind. “You’ll do great, Serena,” she says, and Serena can only wonder what was going to come out of her lips instead. “And if you need a break after, just come find me and we can - we can go for a walk again.” Serena thinks she’ll find Bernie regardless of how the date goes, thinks the glories of that walk are not to be denied, no matter how she feels.

Hilary comes back, as expected, gloating and preening, and Serena is glad of the excuse of horseback riding to escape. It goes better than expected, she’s able to get astride the horse with minimal help, holds her posture straight and proper, and receives a compliment from the instructor. She experiences the unique pleasure of kissing from horseback, leaning across the slight gap between two large equine bodies to meet Paul’s lips with her own.

Laura gets the group date pin, a small horse, and Serena tries to feel sad about it, tries to summon up an emotion about this experience, but instead just finds herself wanting to get back to Bernie, to walk with her in the moonlight. She’s changing into her comfortable clothes when there’s a knock on her door. She opens it a crack, peers into the hallway and sees Bernie, uncomfortably shifting her weight outside. “Come in,” she says, opening the door more widely, and Bernie smiles, one of the small, tight smiles that Serena has come to know and recognize.

“Are we going for a walk?” Serena asks, tries not to make her voice sound too hopeful, too desperate.

“What if we just stay in? It looks like rain,” Bernie says, and Serena thinks she remembers someone on production saying that earlier in the day. She moves aside so Bernie can come in, realizes the only place to sit in her entire room is the large bed in the middle of it. She leans against the headboard and Bernie sits, awkwardly, at the foot of it.

“Didn’t even bother to bring some wine with you,” Serena mock-scolds, and Bernie looks sheepish. “No, I’m just kidding. I can get a bottle, though. There’s loads in the kitchen. She starts to stand and Bernie holds out a hand to stop her.

“I can get one, say it’s for...for work.” Serena looks at her in the eye, thinks Bernie seems nervous, doesn’t really know why.

“Arm wrestle you for it,” Serena says. “Loser has to get the wine, winner gets first sip.” She holds out her hand, feeling a little foolish, thinks she’s never actually arm wrestled anyone in her life. But Bernie smirks, slips her hand into Serena’s, they each rest their elbows on the mattress, a poor substitute for a proper surface, but Serena thinks this isn’t actually about arm wrestling. Bernie’s hand is just as soft and warm and dry as it ever is, and her grip is strong. Serena tenses her jaw, holds tight. She sees the veins in Bernie’s neck stretch, strain, and smiles at Bernie’s effort, but eventually is able to topple Bernie’s hand into the soft quilt, beams widely, victorious. “Looks like the wine is on you,” she says sweetly and Bernie just smiles, stands, and Serena wonders if that was just her plan all along.

Bernie comes back with a bottle of shiraz, and Serena wonders if Bernie knows it’s her favorite. She’s got two plastic cups, fills each one nearly to the brim, touches the rim of her cup to Serena’s, takes a sip without ever taking her eyes from Serena’s.

“This was a good day,” Serena says, when her glass is almost empty. “Thank you.” She raises a cup in mock salute to Bernie, who just as sardonically raises her glass in return.

“If you make it through to the hometown dates next week, I’ve won my bet,” Bernie says, and Serena wonders if there’s a double meaning in that, if Bernie winning the bet means that Serena has been freed from her responsibilities on this show. She doesn’t want to read too much into this, doesn’t want to overthink it. So she just empties her wine glass, lets Bernie fill it up again, and changes the subject to her daughter, who is anxiously waiting to meet a silver-haired gentleman. Bernie looks chastened, makes her excuses, and leaves shortly after, and Serena doesn’t know why she feels badly about it, but just knows that she does.

They have the pinning ceremony in the morning, though everything is lit to look like evening. Serena’s wearing a low-cut gown and an expensive necklace, and keeps looking for Bernie, but doesn’t see the shock of messy blonde hair anywhere. She’s the first name called out by Paul, and she hugs him close after he pins her, but her eyes are searching the production staff to no avail. There’s only one name left to be called, with Laura and Hilary safe and Melanie already gone, and Serena finds she feels more about whether or not Nancy gets to stay than about her own pin she’s just received.

It’s Mary’s name that’s called, and Serena hugs Nancy close, says how much she’ll miss her, says they’ll keep in touch, promises to herself to make it true. She looks around, sees that there’s just three other women, thinks how pleased Elinor will be that she’s made it this far. She’s mentioned Elinor to Paul, briefly, doesn’t know what he’ll think of her. She’s talked more about Elinor to Bernie, Elinor’s recalcitrance, her moodiness, her flightiness, her beauty, her charms. But she puts a smile on her face, hugs Paul once more, tells the cameras and producer she’s never met before that she’s excited for him to come to Holby, that her daughter has been wanting to meet him since the day Serena left for this adventure. The words ring false in her ears but sound true coming from her lips, and she thinks that’s the only lesson she’s learned from this experience.

\- - -

She gets to go home the next day, gets to board a train with her suitcase and go back to Holby. She’s been sworn to secrecy, can’t reveal any details of her experience to anyone. She’s so glad to be going to her own house that she feels buoyed by her giddiness. Everything has a golden sheen to it, everything is lovely. She will have her books, she will have her television, she’s sure there’s a stack of medical journals for her to read. She’s just glad to be away from the endless cameras and interviews, and looks forward to not having to describe her breakfast to anyone, ever.

Her house is quiet and dark. She’d asked Elinor to stop by once a week to water the plants, and that is clearly all Elinor managed to do. There’s a thin layer of dust, there’s old takeaway in the fridge, her mail is in a pile on next to her front door. One of her plants is even dead, so she’s not even sure Elinor actually came in to water them. She can’t find it in herself to really care, though, at the crux of it. She sits down in her living room and enjoys the peace of it all.

It only lasts for a day, because production comes out the following morning, scopes out locations, tells her where she’ll sit for interviews, where Elinor should be when Paul comes in. Elinor is called to the house, sits through hair and make-up and seems to revel in the experience. She theatrically hugs Serena for the cameras, gushes about how excited she is that her mum has found love at last. Serena just thinks that she wants Bernie to show up, that she wants to introduce Bernie to Elinor.

Bernie does eventually come, when Paul does. She’s quiet, removed, only pulls Serena aside for a couple of soundbites, and when Serena tries for more, tries to make conversation, Bernie makes excuses, pulls away. Serena quashes her confusion and pastes on the happy self that has featured in four weeks of _Happily Over the Hill_ and takes Paul to visit her hospital, under the guise of a donor tour so she can proceed with few interruptions and fewer questions. He sits in her office and makes doe eyes at her, even kisses her after drawing the blinds. Serena reminds himself that he’s a good kisser, that he’s a nice man, that she likes his scruffy beard. But when they leave her office, she sees Bernie’s face, slightly hurt, slightly angry, and thinks she likes that face even more. She tilts her head back towards her office, and Bernie gets the message, follows Serena in and closes the door after them.

“I missed you,” Serena confesses, and Bernie coughs. “I like being at home very much, but. I missed talking to you. And Elinor killed my plants.”

Bernie laughs at that, a tired sound, and then her face shifts, like she’s tired of fighting something, like she’s finally giving into whatever has been keeping her apart from Serena. She leans in, leans over Serena, seated in her office chair, braces an arm on either side of Serena, and presses their lips together. Serena arches up into the contact, wants to reach for Bernie, but the angle’s wrong. Bernie’s tongue slides against the seam of her lips and Serena opens her mouth eagerly, only thinks for a moment how perfect this feels, how right.

And then Bernie pulls away, swipes at her mouth, apologizes in her low voice, doesn’t look at Serena. “I’ve got to go,” she says, and leaves the office without looking back, leaves Serena sitting in her chair, the chair she will have to sit in every day at work, her mouth open, her eyes wide. She thinks she’ll never be able to finish her charting without thinking of this moment.

She and Paul have dinner in Holby, at a small Italian restaurant with an extensive wine list, and Paul orders a white wine to go with his steak and Serena suddenly finds it unforgivable, can’t think that she’s known this man for the past five weeks, that she’s kissed him, and he doesn’t know how to pair wines with food. She smiles and thinks it probably looks more like a grimace as they clink their glasses together. Paul reaches for her hand, and she lets their fingers entwine, but just thinks that she wishes Bernie were there instead.

She doesn’t see Bernie for the rest of the night, not the next day either. She’s interviewed by another producer, and when she asks where Bernie is, gets no answer. When they start to pack up their cameras, their film, their computers, Serena makes a decision. She pulls aside the executive producer, pulls her into the bedroom and closes the door behind her.

“I have to withdraw,” Serena says, a decision she’d made the night before, a decision she feels so sure about. The other woman doesn’t really look surprised and Serena wonders if Bernie might’ve said something. “I don’t know - I don’t know how it’ll work for the storyline of the show, if you want me to show up and not get a pin, if you want me to say something, or what, but. It’s not fair to Paul for me to stay in this any longer. And it’s not fair to the other women either.”

In the end, Serena is able to pretend there was an emergency at work, that she is unable to finish the season for that reason. She gives a brief interview to that effect, and then the camera crew leaves. She doesn’t even really say goodbye to Paul. She doesn’t know what she’d say to him, maybe just advise that he pick Laura or Mary at the end, anyone but Hilary.

She goes back to her daily life, knows she only has a few months of calm before the show airs. Raf needles her constantly for information, says for the first time she’s a part of something interesting and she won’t share it with him. Elinor says Serena is a fool for not ending up with Paul and all Serena says is that she can neither confirm nor deny the results of the show. “I’d know if you were engaged,” Elinor says, and Serena just replies that she signed a confidentiality agreement.

\- - -

It’s been three weeks since the show ended when there’s a knock at her door one evening. Serena answers it, opens it slightly, sees Bernie on the other side and loses her breath. She opens the door all the way, widely, stands with her hands on her hips, isn’t quite ready to let Bernie in without explanation, though her heart is beating wildly in her chest.

“Hi,” Bernie says, soft and low, and swipes a hand through her perpetually messy hair.

“Hi,” Serena parrots back, feeling silly and stupid and isn’t sure if she even has a right to demand anything from Bernie when all they’ve done is kiss once.

“I, uh, got your address from your...from your file. I hope - I hope this is okay?” She sounds so scared, so unsure that Serena feels herself relenting, moves aside so Bernie can follow her indoors. The weather’s gone a bit chilly and she can feel the wind seep through her thin cardigan.

“I missed you,” Serena says, deciding for plain honesty, because that’s what she’s best at. Bernie looks sheepish, embarrassed. Her hand twitches like she’s going to reach for Serena and then thinks better of it, so Serena shuts off her brain for the both of their sakes and hauls Bernie into a hug, wraps her arms tightly around Bernie’s shoulders. “I missed you,” she says again into Bernie’s hair, feels Bernie’s hands creep up her back, feels her fingers press into her spine.

“I missed you too.” Bernie’s voice is muffled against Serena’s shoulder, but there’s no mistaking her words. Serena feels Bernie nuzzle into her neck, feels Bernie’s lips against her pulse point, and pulls back, because if Bernie’s lips are going to be anywhere, she wants them against her own. Bernie’s face immediately looks worried, so Serena just leans in and kisses Bernie, doesn’t think twice about the fact that this is the first time she’s made the first move and kissed a woman, that she’s attracted to a woman at all, that she met this woman while on a dating show where she was meant to be wooing a man. None of it seems to matter as Bernie sighs happily into her mouth, as Bernie’s hands hold her close, as they stumble into the living room, pushing the front door closed as they go.

Serena’s almost horizontal on the sofa, Bernie straddling her, before she thinks she might need to take a moment, take a breath. Bernie has a hand under Serena’s top, her warm, dry skin just as comforting against her stomach as it’s ever been. “This is - this is new to me,” Serena says, her voice breathy and quavery and Bernie smiles down at her.

“I guessed,” she says, and rolls off Serena, sits on the floor, her back against the sofa. Serena lets her hand drift into Bernie’s hair, plays with the thin strands. “I don’t want to go too fast for you.”

“You weren’t doing - you weren’t going too fast. I just. I just needed a breath.” Serena rolls on her side, her hand still in Bernie’s hair. She leans, bends her body, kisses Bernie’s scalp. “I’ve had my breath,” she says suggestively and Bernie turns, tilts her head up to Serena, a quixotic grin on her face.

“Is this where you invite me to your bedroom?” she asks and Serena can feel her face turn bright red, but makes herself nod. She stands, holds her hand out to Bernie, wants her to know that every part of this experience is something she wants, something she’s wanted since before she let herself know that she did.

Bernie’s hand slides into Serena’s, as easy as ever, smooth and strong, and Serena pulls her up, pulls her towards the stairs, finds herself pressed against the wall before she’s even made it up two steps, Bernie’s mouth hot and insistent and welcome, her hands pinning Serena’s against the wall.

It’s a slow journey to the bedroom, with detours and pauses and Serena can hardly complain because it seems like every stop results in a piece of clothing being removed or Bernie discovering a new place to kiss Serena. When they make it to the bed, Serena’s lost her shirt and her trousers and Bernie’s just wearing knickers and a sports bra, and Serena’s mind is blank at all the smooth skin, at the rush of new experience, and when Bernie presses their bodies together, her brain feels like it’s exploding.

She’s only slightly ashamed that Bernie does most of the work their first time. Serena’s used her hands on herself countless times but feels shy about using them to bring Bernie pleasure. She follows Bernie’s lead, follows the rhythm of Bernie's fingers, pumping inside her, ruts against Bernie shamelessly, and sinks her teeth into Bernie’s shoulder when she comes. Bernie sags against her, kisses into Serena’s neck, nuzzles against the cleft in her chin. “I missed you,” she says again, and Serena’s arms encircle her, hold their bodies close, so close there’s no space between them at all.

“This is my happily ever after,” Serena says, her voice quiet, and Bernie pulls back, rolls off Serena, and then they’re lying next to each other, their necks craned so their eyes can meet.

“You know, we’re about the same age - we’re happily over the hill after all, I think,” Bernie says wryly, her tone dry and low and Serena laughs, can feel the bed move with Bernie’s laughter too. Bernie rolls closer, slides an arm around Serena’s waist, lets her hand rest near the curve of Serena’s arse. They’re skin to skin and Serena doesn’t think she’d ever trade this feeling for a scruffy beard, not for anything.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” she says, and Bernie noses against her earlobe, presses a kiss at her hairline just there.

“Me neither,” she whispers against Serena’s skin. “But I’m glad it happened.” Serena hums her agreement, lets sleep weigh down her eyelids, lets the feeling of Bernie beside her bring her comfort, the way it always did, no space between them at all.

 


	21. you're right next to me but you're a long way from home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well. an anon asked for: _all of the times bernie's there for serena when they meet up in france. like serena having rough days and bernie being all Caring!BMAM and taking care of her lady in different ways._
> 
> it isn't that, exactly, at all. but it is bernie and serena in france, and i guess i hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from "long way from home" by the lumineers

It’s only been letters, postcards, small packages. Bernie hasn’t seen Serena’s face since the morning after the roof, since the morning after “I hope so.” She’s seen her handwriting, just a smooth and loopy as ever, cursive written in a fine-tipped pen. She can see the care with which Serena buys things for her, what she chooses to send. She can see the unspoken thoughts between the lines of her words, the things Serena isn’t saying. Bernie sits on the train, sits on her hands to keep from fidgeting, not even scenery to distract her for most of the ride. She has a book about Sudan, has some medical research. Jason made her a playlist for her phone, made sure she has her headphones, says he’ll ask her his thoughts when he sees her again.

It makes her heart pang, because she doesn’t know when she’ll see him again. She promised to FaceTime him, when she can, but doesn’t know what it’ll be like when she gets there, thinks of the spotty connections in Afghanistan, the patchy video and lags between sound and picture. She hopes he’ll understand, when all she can do is send letters and emails. She thinks he will, and tries not to see his face, that wide smile and piercing gaze, float in her mind’s eye.

She feels the tears starting to form, damming up behind her lashes, and rubs angrily at her face, doesn’t want to be that woman crying on a train. She feels more maudlin than she thought she would on her way to see Serena. She supposes she didn’t foresee these circumstances. She hasn’t told Serena her plans yet, doesn’t know how to tell her. Bernie thinks she’d rather tell Serena in person, anyway, when they’re side by side, picking grapes in the sun. Or at night, when they’re wrapped up in each other and a soft blanket, the gentle breeze just stirring the curtains. 

She smiles a little at that, thinking of the feeling of Serena’s warm skin, of her soft hair, of her tender lips. Those are the things she’s sure will still be there, even after all this time. Serena’s arms, tanned from the sun, will still entwine easily with hers as they walk. She can almost smell the shiraz on Serena’s breath, can almost taste the dark red on her tongue. 

The journey to Lyon is long and Bernie can’t quite take it, starts walking up and down the car, drawing irritated stares from other riders, but she can’t sit still. She feels her back twinge a bit and stretches near the bathroom, where there’s a little more space to be had. She walks to the dining car, pays too much for a small bottle of wine and a bag of crisps. Finally, finally, the train pulls into the station and the conductor calls out that the next stop is Lyon Part-Dieu. She grabs her duffel from above her head, small, compact. She can practically see Serena’s eyes roll, can imagine her saying they’ll have to go shopping. She doesn’t think about how her other clothes are being shipped to a civilian hospital in Africa. 

She shoulders the strap of her bag and head towards the door of the train, past the people going to Avignon and Marseille. She ducks her neck to see out the window as she walks down the aisle, trying to see if she can spot Serena. There’s nothing, nothing, and then, her heart stops, her breath catches, and she can see those bright brown eyes that she would recognize anywhere, the same eyes that have peered at her at surgery, the same eyes that looked so cold and tired just months ago. Bernie walks as fast as she can, practically hops from the train and moves quickly, so quickly, almost losing her feet beneath her as she goes towards Serena. And Serena is moving towards her, and it feels like they’re in a movie, and when Bernie’s arms go around Serena, she almost can’t believe this is real. She presses her face into Serena’s hair, shorter, greyer, and breathes deep, that scent that clings to her beneath the shampoos and the soaps and a hard day’s work, the scent that tickles Bernie’s nose and tells her it’s the woman she loves. 

“Hello, darling,” Serena whispers in Bernie’s ear, and Bernie can feel the tears spill from her eyes now because those words, those two words, are everything. The sound of Serena’s voice in her ears, something she’s been devoid of for so long. She pulls back, looks at Serena properly, sees tears glinting in Serena’s eyes too. Her skin is browner, she looks healthy, happier, calmer. The creases at her mouth are indented in a smile, no worry to be seen on her features. She’s got lipstick on, red and bold and when she presses her lips to Bernie’s cheek, Bernie doesn’t want to rub the imprint away, but Serena’s thumb does it for her, wipes at Bernie’s face, catching the salty drops that have trickled down her skin. “It’s good to see you, Bernie,” she says, a hint of laughter in her voice, a tinge of giddiness.

“You too, Serena,” she says back, and buries her face in Serena’s neck once more, can’t get enough of her, wants to savor every moment, every touch. And when she pulls back a second time, she kisses Serena, in full view of the God, the train platform and everyone. They’ve never kissed publicly, never kissed outside of the confines of the theatre, or their office, their homes, or a rooftop with no one around. Bernie finds she doesn’t mind, doesn’t care who’s watching, just wants to feel Serena’s lips against her own, just wants to slide her tongue into Serena’s mouth, to feel as well as to hear the moan that escapes from Serena, swallowed by her own throat. “I missed you,” she says a little breathlessly when they part, and Serena just smiles, her eyes wrinkling in happiness, and slides her hand into Bernie’s. 

“Is that all you brought?” she asks, gesturing to Bernie’s small duffel bag, and all Bernie can do is chuckle and shrug, happy that she still knows Serena well enough to guess at her behavior. She feels Serena’s fingers in her own, rubs her thumb against the back of Serena’s hand, and smiles, feels like there’s a glow pouring out from her, wonders if she’s blinding everyone with her sheer joy and contentment at being reunited with Serena once more.

\- - -

Serena’s borrowed a car from someone at the vineyard where she’s been staying. It’s old, older than Bernie’s car, and sputters as they go off down the road. Serena says she’s had to get used to traveling on the other side of the road, and Bernie has to admit it does feel a bit strange. She offers to shift the gear for Serena, a suggestion that is met with a laugh, and Bernie feels her heart sing, to hear that sound come out of Serena’s mouth. 

“It’s a bit of a drive,” Serena warns. “Did you eat? Should we stop for food?” Bernie shakes her head, is happy enough to spend time in the car with Serena. She enjoys the sunshine, enjoys the city giving way to country views. Serena thrusts a map at Bernie, says she has a basic idea of where she’s going, but that she wouldn’t mind a navigator. Bernie unfolds it, filling the front seat, and traces her finger along the route Serena pulls from her memory, says it should be good. Doesn’t bother folding the map back up, just tosses it into the back seat. 

“This is very pretty, Serena,” Bernie says, savoring the feel of the name on her lips. She rests her elbow against the window, her fingers twining in her hair. She thinks this might be a perfect moment in her life, tries to imprint it into her memory. 

“Mmm,” Serena agrees, sparing a look at Bernie, her face flushing prettily under her tan, freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. “You’re very pretty,” she says, eyebrow arched, tone flirtatious, and Bernie grins, wide and true, rests her other hand on Serena’s thigh, gives it a slight squeeze. “I’m glad you’re here.”   
“Glad to be here.” Another squeeze to Serena’s leg, another smile on her face. She thinks she hasn’t smiled this much since Christmas, thinks Serena is the reason for her happiness, her joy, her glee. Wonders if it’s dangerous to feel this much contentment all at once.

Serena turns off the paved road after some time, down a slightly graveled dirt road, the car bumping along, dust clouds forming behind them. There are rows and rows of grape vines, spreading over small fences and posts, the sun starting its descent behind them. Bernie can see a large house in the distance, a few smaller houses nearby. Serena points to one on the far left, says that’s the one she’s been renting. She parks the car in front of the main house, tells Bernie to wait outside as she runs up the steps to drop the keys off on a table by the front door and to call out that she’s back, that she’ll see them tomorrow, that she’s grateful for the use of the car.

She practically skips down the stairs, looks like she’s floating, and grabs Bernie’s hand, pulls her along to her small cottage, whitewashed and plain from the outside, white curtains wafting in the wind, a small planter with a leafy green plant by the door. “This is it,” Serena announces, opening the door to a sparsely decorated home. There’s a plain wooden table in the corner, two mismatched chairs, a quaint kitchen with an old-fashioned refrigerator, rounded and small. An old couch, sagging in the middle, but in a comfortable sort of way is on the other side of the large main room, a blanket draped over the back. 

A small set of stairs leads up, and that’s where Bernie follows Serena. There’s a bathroom, a closet, and a bedroom. The bedroom almost takes Bernie’s breath away, wide windows that look out over the fields, bathed in sunlight. The bed is large, just looks soft, begging to be luxuriated in. There’s a dresser, another small closet, a chair in the corner. Bernie drops her bag by the door and pulls Serena towards her once more. She kisses the corner of Serena’s mouth, her cheek, right next to her eye, her hairline, can’t get enough of it, peppers Serena’s face with kisses. Her hands rove up and down Serena’s back, under the hem of her shirt, below the waist of her trousers. Serena seems content to let Bernie take her fill, just moves them back towards the bed, lets Bernie strip off her blouse, her vest, unhook her bra, lets Bernie pop open the button, slide the zipper of her trousers down. Serena shimmies her trousers off her legs, leaves her pants. Bernie noses into the valley of skin between Serena’s breasts, soft and lovely, dewy with sweat from the summer’s heat. She slides her hand between Serena’s thighs, cups her through the black cotton pants, feels Serena’s intake of breath, looks up at her face, her chin resting against Serena’s stomach. “Okay?” she asks, and Serena smiles a slow smile, her whole face becoming warm and pleased, and she nods. Bernie continues her ministrations, slipping her fingers past the damp black fabric, toying with Serena. Serena’s hands drop to tangle in Bernie’s hair, not pushing or pulling, just playing with the strands Bernie hasn’t washed in two days. 

She uses her teeth to pull Serena’s pants down, uses her hands to get them out of the way completely, uses her mouth to make Serena come, her tongue firm and strong inside of Serena, her lips sucking, her teeth scraping, and she thinks of how she’s missed this taste. How glad she is that this is the first thing she’s eaten on French soil. Serena isn’t as loud, as vocal, as she was before. Her fingers fist against Bernie’s scalp, a low moan escapes from her mouth as her head tips back, her whole body taut, and then she relaxes against the softness of the duvet. Bernie waits for Serena’s hands to loosen, then pulls herself up the bed, pulls herself up so she’s laying next to Serena, still wearing her denims and t-shirt, and wraps her arms around Serena, holds her close, tells herself this is real. Serena hums into the embrace, her eyes closed, and they both fall asleep. 

\- - -

Bernie wakes first, the sky outside dark, the inside of the house dark as well. She pulls her arms away from Serena, disentangles their bodies, and bumps her shin against the foot of the bed as she begins to search for a lamp. A curse escapes her lips before she can stop herself and she hears Serena stir, sees the slight shadow of Serena as she sits up, leans across the bed for the lamp on the low table that Bernie missed before. Serena is still naked, bathed in an aura of light, and Bernie is fully clothed, in the shadows. She shucks off her jeans, her shirt, joining the pile of Serena’s clothes on the floor. She climbs back into bed, pulls the duvet over them both, and lets her arms slide back around Serena, a home that was made for them long before they even met.

Bernie wonders, not for the first time, if Serena isn’t really okay, if she has just been keeping up a very good front of happiness and healing. They haven’t talked, not much, since Bernie got off the train, and talking is one of Serena’s favorite things. Bernie thinks Serena’s changed in the intervening months since they’ve laid eyes on each other, but thinks she’s barely toe-deep in all the ways in which Serena has morphed. 

“How’re you feeling?” she asks, trying to gauge Serena’s mood, and Serena shifts so they’re facing, their noses almost touching. Bernie could count the freckles if she wanted to.

“Hungry,” Serena says, nuzzles against Bernie, kissing her softly, her lips chapped from the sun, but still so soft and warm. “There’s stuff in the fridge, I think. Cheese. Crackers in the cupboard. Wine on the table.”

“I’ll be back,” Bernie says, stands, wearing only her pants and a plain sports bra. Serena long ago cured her of any self-consciousness, dousing her in compliments, in admiration. She doesn’t think of her scars anymore, doesn’t think of the loose skin around her waist, her thighs. She pads down stairs, feeling her way to light switches in the dark, groping for the handle to the refrigerator. She puts together a platter of food, grabs two glasses from the drainer by the sink, tucks a bottle of wine under her arm, a corkscrew tucked into her bra, the handle poking into her skin.

“One trip Wolfe,” Serena says, a smile on her face. “I like a woman who can handle it all in one go.” She’s pulled herself into a sitting position, reaches up to take the glasses and the wine from Bernie, pulls the corkscrew from Bernie’s bra with a cheeky grin, kissing Bernie sloppily on the lips as she does. 

They sit, Bernie cross-legged near the foot of the bed, Serena leaning on pillows propped against the wall. They pick at the food, and Bernie revels in the fact that she can watch Serena drink wine, can follow the movement of her throat as she swallows the liquid, her face flushing at Bernie’s concentration.

“This is good,” Bernie says, lifting her wine glass.

“Made here,” Serena says, leaning in to clink her glass gently against Bernie’s. “It’s a good vineyard. A good place. They’ve been very kind.” She smiles, but her face is slightly sad, sagging like there’s a weight settling about her like a mantle. Bernie isn’t sure she can press, isn’t sure if she can ask, but thinks if she doesn’t now, she might never do it.

“What’s it been like?” she asks, such a broad question and not really what she wants to ask at all. Serena’s face crumples, just a little, but she pulls up the facade quickly, a blink of an eye. 

“You know that movie we watched one night, because it was late and we were tired and couldn’t find the remote? Under the Tuscan Sun? Remember how sad the woman was, rattling around her big empty house. I was like that.” She tries to say it cheerfully, tries to belie the pain that she must have been in. Bernie sets her wine glass on the floor, bends a bit too far to be entirely comfortable for her back, but only winces slightly. She scoots herself up the bed so she’s next to Serena, clasps Serena’s hand in her own.

“Did it help?” she says, and Serena looks at Bernie, the sadness in her eyes clear and apparent now, hitting Bernie with its full force, but she nods, squeezes Bernie’s hand tightly. 

“I don’t cry every day, now,” she says, and Bernie resists the urge to scoop Serena up in her arms, to hold her close, to say trite words that won’t help either of them. “I miss her, of course I miss her, but…” her voice trails off, and all Bernie can do is wait patiently until Serena finds her words again. “It’s lodged itself in me, a part of me. I’m not surprised by it anymore. It’s not better, or worse, it just is. Maybe it’s like your back pain, one wrong move and it hurts for days, but usually, when properly tended to, it’s just there, settling at the back of your mind.” Bernie thinks it’s an apt analogy, wishes she’d had it when her father died, to describe that pain. She looks at Serena searchingly, doesn’t know where to go from here, but Serena seems to have made up her mind that she’s had enough of the maudlin conversation, drains her wine glass and instructs Bernie to lay on her front. “Speaking of your back, I saw the wince when you set your glass down. You must be sore from the train ride, and then sitting in that old musty claptrap on our way here.” 

Bernie follows orders, knows that Serena isn’t changing the subject to try to hide anything. She’s a decisive person, and doesn’t like to dwell, would rather have things to keep her busy. So Bernie pulls her sports bra off over her head in what she hopes looks like a fluid motion, and lets Serena’s warm hands roam all over her back, pressing into the sore spots, a remembered dance from before. She knows where it hurts, where Bernie’s aches are, and her fingers dance over all of those places, pushing against the knots. She rubs her hands against Bernie’s neck, lets her fingers drift into Bernie’s hair, massages her scalp, and Bernie feels boneless and giddy, turns her neck to the side, cranes her head so she can look up at Serena, who is smiling down at her with benevolence. Serena leans down, kisses the tip of Bernie’s nose, then drapes herself along Bernie’s back, her bare front against her. Bernie pillows her head against her hands, feels Serena’s gentle sigh, enjoys the heavy weight of Serena’s body against her own. She feels sleepy again, content, wants to say good night to Serena but feels herself falling asleep before she can open her mouth.

\- - -

She wakes alone, the windows open and the smell of morning coming through them on the breeze. There’s a note, in Serena’s familiar, wonderful hand, saying that she’s gone to the main house for breakfast, that Bernie is welcome to join when she’s awake, that she should expect to pick grapes when they’ve finished eating. And she’s signed it with a heart. 

Bernie wonders if they’ll say “I love you” to each other again, wonders if she can bear to say it. She thinks they’ve found other ways to say the words. “I more than like you.” “I hope so.” The knowledge of Serena’s love feels tattooed on her skin, permanent and indelible, something she knows to be true and real and forever, not something she needs to hear. 

She dresses, pulls on yesterday’s denims, grabs one of Serena’s shirts from the closet, buttons it up as she heads down the stairs, walks quickly to the large house, knocks on the door, then lets herself in. She follows the noise, hears Serena laughing. There’s orange juice in a large pitcher on the table, a platter of bacon, a tall man with wild hair cooking eggs at the stove. He’s saying something in French that has Serena’s head tilted back in a guffaw, the line of her neck so beautiful to Bernie that it makes her stop dead in the doorway.

“Ah, bonjour! Madame Wolfe!” The man makes his way to her, clasps one of her hands in both of his, leads her to the table, pulls out the chair next to Serena’s, claps her on the shoulder. Serena smiles widely. 

“That’s Laurent, owner of this vineyard,” Serena says, pouring Bernie a glass of juice, sliding an empty plate towards her. They speak a bit more in French and Bernie wishes she’d paid more attention in grammar school, can only catch the spare phrase here and there, nothing concrete, and nothing that makes sense without any context.

“Pleased to have you here. Serena’s told us much about you,” Laurent says in slightly accented English, his voice deep and thrumming, and Bernie thinks she can see why Serena would find this place comforting, with this man at the helm. He slides an egg onto Bernie’s plate, then makes his excuses and heads outside. 

“To start the picking. He tries to race me, sees how many baskets he can fill before I can make it outside,” Serena explains, and Bernie laughs, is glad to see Serena has a friend.

They finish eating quickly, though Serena hurries to assure Bernie there’s no penalty for losing the race, that Laurent will just tease her for a day or two about being a slowpoke, a word that she taught him, one he enjoys thoroughly. “Colloquial English doesn’t always make its way to these backroad vineyards,” Serena says, “and whenever Laurent learns a new phrase, he delights in it.” 

“So use idioms whenever possible?” Bernie asks dryly, and Serena smiles, nods, stuffs a forkful of egg and bacon in her mouth. 

They spend the day picking grapes together, slowly, with no real sense of urgency to their task. Serena slides a grape between Bernie’s lips, kisses her and savors the taste of the fruit’s juices on Bernie’s tongue. Bernie thinks she has to tell Serena about Sudan tonight, this evening, before it feels like she’s let it go too long. But she enjoys being out of doors with Serena at her side, enjoys the feeling of the sun on her neck, sees Laurent watching them from the porch and waves at him, smiles when he waves back. 

They shower when they’re done for the day, together, their bodies pressed close against the spray. Serena slips her fingers inside Bernie as the water beats down on her back, bites at Bernie’s bottom lip as she crooks the digits lodged against Bernie’s clit. Bernie groans, her face falling forwards against Serena’s shoulder. It’s fast and dirty and wet, and when they’re done, they soap each other up quickly before the water runs cold. 

Bernie pulls on a worn pair of Serena’s sweats, an old t-shirt that was bunched in the bottom of her duffel. Serena finds a pair of yoga pants, Bernie’s hoodie, and they go for a walk around the grounds, hand in hand. Serena points at different things, the different kinds of grapes Laurent is trying to grow in small patches, as a test, the tree she tried to climb when she first got here, out of some kind of misplaced frivolity and daredevilry. “Almost broke my wrist,” she says ruefully, and Bernie lifts their joined hands, places a kiss against the offending joint. 

“Serena, I - I have to tell you something,” she says, finally, when they’ve walked in silence for long enough. Serena stops walking, halts Bernie too. 

“You’re going to Sudan,” she says, and Bernie is too surprised to do anything but nod dumbly. “Jason told me, two nights ago. Wondered how long you were going to go without telling me.” She doesn’t sound mad, doesn’t sound sad, just sounds matter of fact. 

Bernie didn’t think to ask Jason not to say anything, doesn’t know if she’d’ve wanted him to lie for her anyway. She looks at Serena, just lets herself look, take it all in. Serena is watching Bernie, too. They just stare at each other, and Bernie thinks she’s trying to send everything she wishes she could say out loud across the space between them. “I’ll have leaves, vacations. And you - you could come visit, I think. And we’ll write. And talk on the phone. And I’m not leaving you, Serena. It’s just - it’s just something I have to do.” She doesn’t want to think about how these are words she used with Marcus, when he tried to tell her not to go away, when he tried to guilt her into feeling as if she was choosing her career over her family.

Serena makes it different, though, because what she says is, “I understand,” and holds onto Bernie tightly. “You’re not running away from us, you’re running towards something else.” And there, like it was nothing, Serena’s managed to put it into words, what Bernie feels deep within her skin. She pulls Serena towards her, pulls Serena into her arms and holds her as tightly as she can, her arms around Serena’s shoulders. This is how she tells Serena she loves her when she can’t form the words, with every ounce of her being. She just holds Serena, holds her and holds her and memorizes the feel of Serena’s skin against hers. 

When they finally pull apart, Serena’s face is wet, and she’s looking down at their hands, her fingers interlocked with Bernie’s. And when she looks up at Bernie, it’s with hope and love and desire in her eyes. “Is there room for me in your future?” she asks, and Bernie feels her heart break, remembers being on the roof all those months ago, asking the same question, worry lodged in her heart that Serena would say no. 

“I hope so,” is what Bernie means to say, but what comes out is, “I love you.”


	22. when i say forever, it's the goddamn truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> one of my best pals said, "I wanttttttttt Bernie and Serena get married and then are just marrieds together doing marrieds ass shit like oh damn domestic married legal partnership is grand the second time around"
> 
> idk WHO EVER KNOWS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from "finding you" by kesha

When Marcus proposed to Bernie, it was underneath a tree outside of the medical library at university. He had his hands in his pockets and hope on his face, and Bernie couldn’t help but say yes. He was her best friend, what more could she want?

Their wedding was small, but bigger than Bernie wanted. Too many relatives whose names she didn’t know, too many maiden aunts pressing their wet lips to her cheek and telling her how lovely she looked. Marcus had gripped her hand at the altar, beamed wide as he moved in to kiss her when the priest pronounced them wed. They’d stumbled through their first dance, laughing and holding each other up, neither particularly graceful, neither particularly interested in convention. He’d smashed cake in her face and she’d laughed as she licked icing from her thumb. Her smile is wide in photos, her eyes happy. 

When Edward proposed to Serena, he was a little tipsy and had snuck a diamond ring into her piece of tiramisu, only remembering to warn her before she bit into the thing and almost broke a tooth. She’d admired the jewel on her right hand and said yes, because it was the thing to do. 

They got married very properly and Adrienne walked Serena down the aisle, kissed her cheek as she gave Serena away. Serena joined her hands with Edward’s and they stood before God and everyone and were declared husband and wife. She smelled the barest scent of gin on his breath. They danced, whirled around the floor, kissed every time glasses were clinked. She was young and happy and free, married to a bright young surgeon who loved her.

Divorce seems impossible on a wedding day, so far from one’s mind. Nothing but flowers and goodwill and buttercream frosting as far as the eye can see. It’s years later, when the dust has settled and reality has etched its existence on a marriage. Serena moves out, slams divorce papers on the kitchen table before she leaves in a huff. Bernie opens an envelope at work, rages at the lack of consideration. So far from the young brides with their whole lives before them.

And yet, better. Laden with experience, with time, with wisdom, with knowing what it is to get what you want, and even more, with knowing what it takes to keep it. Knowing a wedding is one thing, a marriage is another.

\- - -

They’re sitting at the dining room table, just the two of them. Serena’s cooked chicken and rice, Bernie managed to roast some broccoli in the oven without burning it too badly. Jason is off with Celia for the evening; they’re enjoying a rare night without the sound of Countdown or artillery fire in the background. It’s a bit warm in the house, but comfortably so. Bernie’s resting her stockinged feet on the rungs of Serena’s chair, her elbow resting against the back of her own, her hand in her hair, occasionally pulling through the fine strands. Serena is fidgety, nervous, so Bernie pours her a glass of wine, ushers her into the living room.  _ Their  _ living room. For over three months now, they’ve lived together, shared a mortgage, shared responsibilities for driving to and from work. Bernie happily watches documentaries with Jason, has endless patience when answering his questions, when navigating his very structured routine. “It’s like being in the military,” Bernie says with a shrug when Serena expresse her gratitude. “There’s not another option, you follow the schedule that’s been set.” It’s nothing special to Bernie, doesn’t feel like compromising and bending over backward, and that, in itself, is special to Serena.

When they’re seated on the sofa, Bernie sips at her glass of wine, waits Serena out. She doesn’t have to wait long, though, because Serena is fair bursting.

“Bernie, there’s something, well, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about.” Serena’s voice is pitched a bit higher than usual, and she seems a little less sure of herself. 

“Mmm?” Bernie murmurs in response, relaxed from the wine and the warmth and Serena, even in the face of her anxiety. She turns her head so she’s facing Serena, still leaning against the back of the sofa. 

“It was Jason’s idea, really - well, he pointed out the practicalities of the situation and it’s not, well it’s not something I’d ever thought of or planned for me - us - but I thought I should at least, well, at least bring it to your attention. Because Jason might ask you about it.” Her fingers are playing with the chain of her necklace, twisting the charm back and forth, and she’s not quite meeting Bernie’s gaze.

Bernie sits up straighter on the couch, turns her whole body, folds one leg up so she can face Serena comfortably. “Serena, just say it,” she says. She thinks, even though they’re long past Kiev and Serena’s sabbatical, and everything, Serena still fears, in the back of her mind, that she’ll do something to scare Bernie off, that someday Bernie will just decide it’s all too much.

The last time she said as much to Bernie, all Bernie said was, “If you think I’m moving again, Ms. Campbell, you’re sorely mistaken. Stuck with me, I’m afraid.” Her lighthearted tone, her joking air, had done more to soften Serena than a confession of love and devotion, Bernie thinks. The idea of Bernie leaving so ridiculous that she can’t even answer the concern of it seriously. 

And so Serena just blurts it out: “Jason thinks it might be a good idea if we get married.” She doesn’t really wait for Bernie’s response before barreling on. “If something should happen to me, or to him and I’m not around, and words aren’t enough, there should be something - something tangible that we can point towards to say we’re a family. I know we’ve both done the wedding thing and I don’t know that I need that again, and I’m not even trying to force you into a longterm commitment, I just, well, Jason just, we thought it might be a good idea and -” Bernie decides that there’s never going to be a cessation in her speech, so simply leans forward to kiss Serena on the lips, quickly, chastely, but it’s enough to make Serena pause.

“Okay,” Bernie says when she pulls back. 

“O-okay?” Serena asks, as though she were imagining much more of a battle. Bernie shrugs.

“Jason’s right, it does make a certain amount of practical sense.” The romance is lost, a bit, and Bernie wonders if she should try to do some grand gesture, fill the house with rose petals and candles, and get down on one knee, but shakes her head slightly at the idea. She’s not sure if her knees could take it, for one. For another, Serena’s said that Edward was always full of flowery gestures, with nothing behind them, just empty suits in the place of meaning. Gestures don’t mean much to her anymore. 

“Okay.” Serena says again, but with more certainty. And leans in to kiss Bernie, slides her tongue right into her mouth with very little preamble, tangles her fingers in Bernie’s hair, slides one hand under her shirt. Murmurs that Bernie has a way of making her feel a bit frisky, which makes Bernie laugh, the vibrations of her body thrumming against Serena, the tangible feeling of Bernie’s happiness. 

\- - -

It doesn’t come up for a bit, not until Jason brings it up at dinner, wonders if Serena ever brought up the issue to Bernie. He seems befuddled that they would forget to tell him about this important advancement in their relationship, and doesn’t seem to buy Bernie’s explanation that it’s not that important of an advancement. “We’re doing it for practicality’s sake,” she says, trying to appeal to his logical side, but, it seems, in this, Jason has latched on to the ideas of romance. He is even more put out when he asks how Bernie proposed and finds out there wasn’t even an official proposal, just a quick agreement, sealed with a kiss. The kiss assuages him a bit, but he says he still wishes they’d done something more.

“Sorry, Jason,” Serena says, “but perhaps when you’re our age, and have been through a bit more in your life, you’ll understand.” Jason doesn’t like that answer at all, doesn’t like to be told there are things he can only understand with time, not with research. 

It’s then that Bernie stretches back in her chair and says, “It’s been so long since my wedding that I’ve forgotten what one has to do. Has it changed in twenty-five years?”

Jason, as it turns out, has done a fair bit of research into what it takes to get married. “It’s actually a civil partnership, what you’ll be doing,” he says. The words make Bernie’s cheeks pink slightly. There’s a bit of her that thrills at the idea of it, at being tied to Serena, forever. Not that she’s naive enough to think things always last forever - she’s proof enough of that - but she feels that this, that she and Serena, are as close to forever as it gets. 

There are a lot of documents to get in order, both of their decrees absolute, their proof of citizenship, just a whole mess of papers that they have to present at the local register’s. Jason organizes it all, makes a checklist, and Bernie’s grateful for it, because she knows she’d have misplaced something or other without him. She tells him as much and he just says, “I know, Bernie. That’s why I’ve made the checklist.” She appreciates his frankness, his inability to say the polite, if untrue, thing. 

They submit their paperwork, and give official notice of their intent to join in civil partnership, and Serena takes Bernie out for dinner to celebrate. They sit on the same side of the table and Serena slips off her shoe, lets her foot slide against Bernie’s bare ankle. She watches Bernie with dark eyes as she spoons tiramisu into her mouth, watches Bernie’s eyes track the progress of her tongue as she licks cream from her upper lip. They get their check in a hurry, and Bernie’s hands are inside Serena’s shirt in the back of a cab, and Serena tips the driver extra for not making any rude comments. 

They tumble out of the back of the car, unwilling to be separated by more than a millimeter, it seems. The front door barely bangs shut before Serena is pushed against it and Bernie’s hands are pushing down her trousers, pushing into her pants, her fingers teasing into the coarse hair, the coarse,  _ damp _ hair, because Serena’s been wet since Bernie ordered ‘bruschetta’ and let the Italian words lilt and drip off her tongue. She’s gasping quickly, so quickly, and thinks it’s insane how swiftly Bernie can get her off, especially when there’s a doorknob digging into her hip. 

She returns the favor, on the sofa in the sitting room, her mouth pressed against Bernie, her tongue inside of her, licking deeply, sucking hard, and Bernie croons her pleasure, a keening noise that fills the room. A wedding is nothing to them, but the idea of commitment, of forever, is proving to be an aphrodisiac neither predicted.

They have to wait at least twenty-eight days, they’re told, and the time goes by quickly, so quickly, in fact, that it’s two months before they even realize. They’re eating lunch, Bernie stealing crisps from Serena’s side of the desk, and it hits Serena. “Bernie - we haven’t actually gotten married,” she says, and Bernie laughs.

She looks at her watch, glances briefly at her computer screen, at the schedule for the day. “We’ve still some time before our lunch break is over. Think we can convince Jason to be a witness? Maybe Morven for our second? Or Hanssen? Is he doing anything besides shuffling paper?” Serena huffs a laugh. She looks down at herself, still in scrubs because she has surgeries in the afternoon, not a spot of makeup on her face, her jewelry tucked away in her locker. Bernie’s got scrubs on too, and her hair is pulled back into its messy ponytail and she’s got a light inside her that makes her look beautiful. 

“You’re really all right with it being today? Right now? There’s nothing...we haven’t written anything,” Serena says, a little helplessly. It’s not that she doesn’t want to barge into the register’s office right this second, it’s more that it doesn’t seem like it should be this easy. She’s been through endless dress fittings and cake tasting and a mother who didn’t want to cede control. It’s impossible that it should be this simple. She thinks of the promises she would make to Bernie: to share her life, her work, her home. To never scold her for socks on the floor. To order extra rice with Chinese takeaway. To make double the amount of coffee on mornings when Bernie has to work a double. She says them out loud to Bernie, before they leave their office, grabs her hand and holds her inside the door. Bernie smiles, holds her hand against Serena's cheek. 

"I promise to share my life, my work, my home," she echoes Serena, "To use the ironing board on my shirts. To ply you with chocolate croissants. To never count how many glasses of shiraz you've had." Serena laughs, leans against Bernie, into Bernie, Bernie's presence solid and real. Bernie's face flushes slightly, her eyes darken, and Serena thinks Bernie's just had some sort of devious thought, the kind she doesn't say out loud unless they're naked and alone in their house, thinks she'll ask Bernie about it later. She winks, slow and sneaky, and Bernie flushes more. "Come on, Ms. Campbell. We've got things to do and little time to do them in." She pats Serena's rear with no small amount of affection, opening their office door and ushering her out.

Serena calls Jason as they head downstairs, explains the situation, asks if he can forego his lunch routine just this once. He offers to bring Alan, to be the second witness, and Bernie agrees with a shrug. It doesn’t matter, this bit, it’s just a piece of paper. They have witnesses to their love every day, as trite as the thought sounds in her mind. It doesn’t matter who signs the document.

They can walk to the register’s office, it’s so close. Bernie’s got a cheque written for forty-six pounds clutched in her hand, and Alan and Jason pull into the parking lot. They look a bit of a motley crew, the four of them, but Serena doesn’t mind in the least. This is what marriage looks like, even if it’s not what a wedding looks like. 

It takes no time at all. Jason pulls up some pre-written vows that fit the required “formal wording” of a civil partnership, and Serena and Bernie say it to each other. Bernie’s clutching Serena’s hand, nervous and happy and giddy and beaming, and Serena feels shy, elated, like she can’t believe this is her life, that she should be this lucky, to stand here, with her best friend. She only briefly wishes Adrienne could be here to see this, that Adrienne could see how happy Bernie makes her daughter, but blinks the emotion away, looks Bernie straight in the eyes, her bright eyes meeting Bernie's dark ones.

They don’t have rings, didn’t think to buy them, aren’t sure they need them. Jason objects to this but Serena gently explains that they’re making their own rules for this situation, that they’re allowed to do as they please, because it’s their wedding, and he acquiesces after a bit, after Bernie throws in three examples from popular culture of weddings, none of which are the same as another. 

“Do you feel different?” Jason asks, before they part ways. Bernie looks at Serena, sizes her up. She makes a show of feeling herself, pinching at the flesh at her arms, wiggling a foot back and forth, and Jason rolls his eyes. “You’ll forgive the abstract phrasing, but I believe you know what I mean,” he says, and Bernie chuckles.

“I do not feel any different, Jason. I was already planning on staying with your auntie for the rest of my life, now there’s just a piece of paper saying that very thing.” Serena looks at Bernie, eyes so full of affection that it makes Bernie’s heart rattle around in her chest, thumping against her rib cage. She grabs for Serena’s hand, gives her fingers a squeeze.

With that, Jason and Alan get back into the car and head back to their days, their life, and leave Bernie and Serena in the car park, holding hands and grinning. “We got married,” Serena says, and adds, a little ruefully, “in scrubs.”

“Well, we have surgery to get back to,” Bernie says. She looks at her watch. “But we have some time.” 

The walk back to the hospital is a quick one, but there’s a detour to a supply cupboard on the way back to AAU, a fast flurry of hands and lips and clothing pushed aside, and scrubs only prove to be an inconvenience when they have to sort out whose top is whose in the darkened closet.

\- - -

They don’t announce anything, don’t make a fuss. They end up buying rings together when they have a weekend off, but Bernie just wears hers on a chain underneath her shirt, unobtrusive and not something to draw questions. Serena wears hers, except when in surgery, and answers any questions about it with a shrug. “It’s a microwave,” she’ll say with a scoff. “Of course it’s a wedding ring.”

Serena doesn’t take Bernie’s name, Bernie doesn’t offer to hyphenate. They’ve been these people with these names for long enough that there’s no reason, no point to change it now. They’ve built their careers on their names. Bernie likes to whisper, “Ms. Campbell” against Serena’s skin, to watch her eyebrow raise, to hear the stern tone come from her lips. Serena likes to joke about “Wolfe” bites when Bernie’s pressed her teeth too hard into Serena’s shoulder, an imprint of the ferocity of her feelings. 

When Bernie and Serena get married, it meant nothing more than a tax break and the potential ease of getting into one another’s hospital room in case of emergency. It meant that Jason would be cared for, no matter what. It meant they had a piece of paper that said they’d be together forever. When Serena proposed, she was nervous and stuttering and didn’t even really phrase it as a question. When Bernie accepted, she was calm and sure. When they stood in front of the register, they wore scrubs in shades of blue, the colors of the ward they share, as they held hands and said words they’d said countless times to each other in the dark of night, when they’re nothing but whispers and skin. 

They didn’t agree to a wedding, they agreed to a life together, to everything that came after that one day, which is why a piece of paper didn’t mean all that much, in the end.


	23. the joy of how you whisper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon suggested: _They haven't kissed yet. It's Bernie's birthday and Serena's the only one who knows because maybe she bribed someone in HR. She decides to plan something nice and low-key._
> 
> as always, WHO KNOWS. something short and sweet here you go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is a quote from Rumi: 
> 
> "I want to know the joy   
> of how you whisper   
> 'more'"

It ends up costing Serena one of her few free weekends and means she is cashing in more than a few favors all over the hospital, but she gets what she’s after: the birthday of one Berenice Wolfe. She couldn’t say why she hankered after this information in such a way - she and Bernie are merely friends - but she likes to know things, likes to have information about the people she cares for. And she does care for Bernie, they’re quite good friends. For the first time, it feels like Serena has an equal, someone who understands her. They’re both over fifty, they’ve both been divorced, had children, run the gauntlet of medical school. There is so much Bernie gets about Serena that she’s never had to explain.

Bernie knows Serena’s birthday, Serena thinks she bragged about having the same birthday as Julie Andrews within a week of knowing Bernie. It’s a fact she’s always loved. And Bernie remembered, brought Serena a small cupcake, an extra large latte and a beaming smile, pleased with herself for not letting the date slip by. 

Serena tries to think what Bernie would like, what sort of thing she could give the great and wonderful trauma surgeon, gracing Holby Hospital with her presence. She almost wants to make a big hoopla of it, to tell everyone, get them all pointed hats and noisemakers. She wants to make a fuss over Bernie, a woman who has never had a fuss made over her in her life, Serena thinks. Bernie has talked about perfunctory birthdays with a stern grandmother and distant parents, the traditional candle blowing was about as frivolous as it got. She says that birthdays aren’t always marked in the army - that it’s nice for an excuse to celebrate, but they celebrate the more important things, like making it through a trauma with only minor casualties. In the face of that, birthdays seem trivial. She says that once, Alex snuck a flask into Bernie’s bunk and they got tipsy off lousy whisky and giggled together till dawn.

Serena doesn’t think she’ll get Bernie whisky.

She thinks about telling Bernie that she’s obtained this elusive bit of information, this date that Bernie has been tight-lipped about, this date that Bernie refused to give her, laughter playing around her eyes as she noted Serena’s consternation about being kept in the dark. “Not even your star sign?” Serena asked, almost pleadingly.

“Is that a pick up line?” Bernie asked, an eyebrow raised, and Serena felt her face flush, red and hot, and mumbled something before dashing off. 

She gets that way more and more, all flustered in the face of Bernie Wolfe, beautiful and tall, hair like corn silk and just as tangled. She tries to talk to Jason about it one night, thinks she could use his cool reason on the subject, and he simply says that he has no interest in discussing her love life with her. She stammers that it’s nothing romantic, and Jason replies that Bernie likes women, and Serena has been acting like a girl with a crush, just like in all the TV shows he’s seen, and so it sounds like she’s talking about her love life. Serena puts an end to the subject then and there. 

In the end, she decides to keep her newfound knowledge of Bernie’s birthday a secret, likes that she has this thing, this tidbit that she can use. She thinks the best thing for Bernie, the best thing for them, is to have a night off, together. So Serena innocently invites Bernie to dinner on the night of her birthday, pretends as if she doesn’t know the date is anything special at all, and Bernie is just as poker faced on the subject, doesn’t react at all. 

It’s a week in advance, so Serena has a week to fret about it, to wonder what she should wear and how she should act. She even wonders, briefly, if Bernie thinks it’s a date. But they’ve been out before, just the two of them, with wine and charcuterie between them. She thinks, once, after more than enough wine, she even fed Bernie a bit of cake from her fork, couldn’t hide the blush that spread across her cheeks at the sight of Bernie’s mouth closing over the chocolate morsel. 

\- - - 

She tells Bernie that she’ll pick her up at seven o’clock, doesn’t tell Bernie where they’re going. She’s found a French restaurant tucked away on a sidestreet with some of the most authentic cuisine she’s ever tasted outside of the country itself. Bernie mentioned once, long ago, about always wanting to try escargot but being too scared to order it, too worried she wouldn’t be able to get them out of their shells. Serena’s had it on more than one occasion, doesn’t crave the slippery garlicky taste of them, but doesn’t mind it either, is happy to eat some if it means fulfilling one of Bernie’s lifelong goals. She thinks there isn’t much Bernie hasn’t accomplished in her life, that to be a part of such a small success is meaningful. 

Serena ends up wearing a dress, because she dithers too much, feels that she hates every single thing that she owns, has just enough time to pull a simple black dress from the hanger, thankful she shaved her legs in the morning. She slides her feet into the leopard print heels she remembers buying when she thought she might actually get the promotion she so richly deserved, and manages to swipe a bright red lipstick across her mouth, dusts rouge across the apples of her cheeks. She calls out to Jason that she’ll be back later as she leaves the house, moving as fast as she can on her spiky heels, mindful of cracks in the sidewalk, the driveway, immediately reminding herself why she wears those perfunctory, if hideous, black work shoes every day. 

She drives to Bernie’s house, is halfway there by the time she realizes she has the route memorized. The only other places she can get to without thinking are the hospital, Alan’s house and the fish and chip shop that Jason prefers. She hasn’t even been over to Bernie’s that often, just a couple of times she’s given a ride to her, once or twice after a long night at Albie’s when she didn’t have to be home. Just things regular friends do for one another. 

Bernie’s renting a small rowhouse, squashed between two other equally small rowhouses. There’s a welcome mat on the front step that Bernie says came with the property and Serena doesn’t find that hard to believe, can’t imagine Bernie thinking it’s necessary to buy something like that. Her trash bin is overflowing and Serena would bet a week’s pay that Bernie forgets to wheel it out before she leaves for work, and wonders if texting Bernie a weekly reminder is another thing regular friends might do for one another. 

She parks, has just opened her door when she sees Bernie coming down the front walk. Her mouth gapes slightly, because Bernie, apparently, has also opted for a dress, and Serena thinks she’s never seen such shapely calves. Her hair is pulled back into a clip, her neck exposed and for a moment, Serena hears Jason’s words echoing in her head, that she’s got a bit of a crush on Bernie Wolfe. 

“You look nice,” she calls conversationally over the top of her car, and Bernie looks down, tucks her fringe back.

“I thought the occasion warranted it,” Bernie says when she looks up at Serena again, her eyes dark and glittering, and Serena can’t quite tell what she’s thinking.

“What occasion’s that?” she asks, baiting Bernie a bit, wondering what she’ll say. 

“We both know what today is, Serena. Dom warned me three days ago that you’d gloated about getting this proprietary bit of information.” She winks, quick and sly and Serena almost misses it, can’t do anything but blush as she ducks back into her car, Bernie walking around to the other side. She shouldn’t have bragged probably, especially not to Dom, but she was just so proud of herself for getting it, so pleased she’d gotten Bernie to agree to a dinner out, she felt like she might just explode with glee if she didn’t get it out. She thinks she should’ve told Hanssen instead, as he’d be less likely to gossip. But, on the other hand, more likely to reprimand her for going after private employee information. 

“Happy birthday, Bernie,” is all Serena says, when they’re both belted in and she’s shifted the car into drive, the radio lightly tinkling, warm air drifting from the vents. Bernie smiles one of her small secret smiles, the kind that Serena has started to feel are just for her, the kind she never shows to patients or to Ric or Morven, the kind that only come out when she is supremely pleased, supremely happy, and Serena likes to think that, more often than not, she’s the cause of it. 

\- - -

She parks on the street, a block from the restaurant, and waits for Bernie to shut her door before locking the car, pressing the button twice out of habit, the horn honking and lights flashing on the quiet street. “Sorry,” she says apologetically, but Bernie just shakes her head. She’s taller than Bernie, in her heels, her eyes level with Bernie’s hairline, and she feels a bit uncomfortable, unused to the difference. Bernie, however, gives a low appreciative whistle at the sight of Serena’s heels. 

“I’m not the only one who dressed a bit posh,” she says when Serena arches an eyebrow. 

“Yes, well. I believe, what was it, ‘the occasion warranted it’?” Bernie laughs softly, chuckles more like, and leans into Serena, warm and solid. Serena thinks how often they’re pressed, shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm. They walk closely down hallways together, but she can explain that away by saying they’re making room for the flow of traffic in the busy halls of Holby. They stand even closer at the nurse’s station, and there’s no real reason for that at all. And Bernie leans in to make a snide remark, her breath tickling the short strands of hair above Serena’s ear. And Serena finds herself staring at Bernie’s neck, her mouth, as she turns away. She’s brought back to the present, to where they are now, when her fingers bump against Bernie’s, accidentally, but it sends a jolt through her all the same. 

She dares a sideways glance at Bernie, thinks her face might be pink, can’t tell in the low evening light. Serena’s glad, a bit, when they get to the restaurant. Bernie holds the door open, gestures Serena in first. They’re led to a table in the back, quiet and dark, and they’re seated on the same side, and Serena wonders when the assumption was made that this is a date. She looks at Bernie to see if she minds, opens her mouth to offer to move to the other side, and then Bernie deliberately grabs her hand, holds it on top of the table, her fingers lightly moving against Serena’s smooth skin. “Stay,” she says. “I don’t mind,” she says. So Serena stays where she is, doesn’t pull her hand from Bernie’s grasp, feels her face hot and red.

“I thought we could have escargot,” she says lightly, when the menus have been delivered, and she feels Bernie’s gaze on her face, turns to look, feels her breath go at the intensity of it.

“You remembered,” Bernie says, a breathy statement, an awed statement.

“Yes, well. You forgot what it was called and said you’d never had escarole, which, as we both know, is a kind of lettuce that you most certainly have had.” She’s blushing again, and wonders if she’ll ever stop, wonders how noticeable it is. She thinks there might be credence to Jason’s theory that she has a crush on Bernie Wolfe, but for the first time, she’s starting to think perhaps Bernie Wolfe has a crush on her too. 

The snails come, and they’re as Serena remembers. Nothing she’d go out of her way to have, but the look on Bernie’s face is enough to make it all worthwhile. There’s the first, tentative taste, that garlic hitting first, covering any other impressions the dish might make. And then Bernie’s chewing. And chewing and chewing and chewing, and her face goes from slight wonderment to distaste, and it’s only after she’s swallowed that she says in a low voice to Serena that perhaps one is enough. 

“At least you made a good faith effort,” Serena says congenially, and moves the escargot to the opposite side of the table, moves their tiny plates and forks with them, wipes daintily at her mouth when she’s done.

“It’s what my mother always taught me to do,” Bernie says, and Serena laughs at that, lets herself lean against Bernie, feels Bernie through the thin material of her dress. Serena wishes she was across the table if only to better see Bernie’s face, to better gauge her mood, what she’s thinking. Bernie is inscrutable to most, but Serena thinks she’s gotten somewhat of a handle on it. And when Bernie doesn’t stiffen, doesn’t move, at the gentle pressure of Serena’s arm against hers, Serena slides her hand against Bernie’s, her short nails dragging against the skin of Bernie’s palm, and she slips her fingers into the spaces between Bernie’s. 

Their entrees come, and Serena doesn’t even know what she’s eating, doesn’t know what she’s ordered, because all she can think of is how Bernie’s hand felt against hers, how she thinks she could feel Bernie’s pounding pulse in her wrist, but how she’s not sure if it wasn’t just her own. 

As their plates are cleared away, Serena whispers to the waiter, “ _ C’est l’anniversaire de mon ami _ ,” and he smiles, nods his head and whisks their plates away. She doesn’t know what that might get them, doesn’t know if an embarrassing birthday song is in the offing, though this doesn’t seem like the sort of place for that. 

Her questions are answered when a small chocolate tart is placed in front of them, one single candle pressed into the middle, flame flickering to and fro, the shadows dancing on Bernie’s face, and Serena is mesmerized. 

When Bernie blows out the candle, Serena can’t stop herself from asking, “What did you wish for?” and Bernie turns to her, so slowly, her neck long and bare and pale, the tendons so clear as she tilts her head to face Serena. Her gaze is dark, impenetrable, and then it flicks down to Serena’s lips, and she’s no longer questioning what it is Bernie would like for her birthday. 

She feels like she is existing outside of herself as her hand slides up Bernie’s shoulder, as her fingers press ever so slightly against Bernie’s freckled neck, feels the remnants of the scar beneath the pad of her forefinger. Her other hand sits in her lap and she’s not sure what to do next, but Bernie does, and Bernie grasps Serena’s hand, holds on tightly. 

Serena will replay this moment in her memory for years to come, it will be the thing that brings a smile to her face during surgery, it will be the thing Jason asks her about when she’s daydreaming over the stove, it will be the thing Bernie smirks about across the desk. She leans in, her mind so clear and sharp, so sure, and presses her lips to Bernie’s, uses her hand against Bernie’s neck to hold her close, tugs slightly at their joined hands in her lap, pulls her fingers free only to slide them along Bernie’s back, against the grey knit of her dress. She can feel that Bernie isn’t wearing a bra, feels her brain short-circuit, unsure of what to do with the information, wonders if it isn’t all moving a bit too fast. But then Bernie slips her tongue into Serena’s mouth, and she sighs at its entrance, feels like perhaps the months preceding have all been an elaborate foreplay to this, and if anything they’re moving too slowly. 

They kiss and kiss, and Serena feels herself getting carried away, feels the heat rising in her chest just as it rises in her cheeks, and when she pulls away, her chest is heaving, she feels breathless, but she sees the same mirrored in Bernie’s face, in her posture. 

“That was what I wished for,” Bernie says, and Serena can only smile, because it is so completely  _ Bernie _ to pick up their conversation as if nothing had happened in the interim, as if her world hadn’t shifted on its axis, as if she hadn’t almost had just her hand down the front of her best friend’s dress. 

“Just that?” Serena can’t help but ask, her voice quavering a bit, suddenly unsure. What if she kissed badly, what if that’s all Bernie wanted and now she’s been cured of the wanting. 

“Well,” Bernie starts and Serena can feel her own intake of breath, “there are limits to what I am willing to wish for in a public restaurant,” she finishes, and Serena exhales, lets her hand tangle with Bernie’s once more. 

“Perhaps - perhaps you might want a belated birthday celebration this weekend? I’ve candles and cake at mine, and Jason’s set to be off with Alan,” Serena says, in slight disbelief at how forward it sounds, how blatant, but Bernie just laughs, squeezes their joined hands.

“I have something to confess,” Bernie says, and Serena feels her heart drop, wonders what Bernie is going to say, feels as though she’s on some ridiculous ride at Alton Towers she never signed up for. “Today isn’t my birthday,” she says and Serena’s eyebrows fly towards her scalp. “HR entered it wrong, inverted the month and the day. I didn’t know it myself, not till you gloated about it to Dom.”

“And you let this charade go on all night?” Serena asks, almost tempted to pull her hand away except for how nice it all feels.

“You were just so pleased with yourself. The day you learned it, I remember. You were just swanning around AAU like a proud peacock. I didn’t know what’d gotten into you, but it makes sense now. Anyway. I didn’t have the heart to say anything.” Bernie’s laughing, just edging towards that loud braying noise that escapes her when she’s especially tickled, and the disgruntled look on Serena’s face does nothing to stop it.

“What impact does this have on any potential weekend plans?” Serena asks, when Bernie’s gotten a bit of a hold over herself, but hasn’t quite managed to get the smirk off her face.

“It means you don’t need to go through the trouble of baking me a cake,” Bernie says, “but I have every intention of imposing upon your hospitality.” She leans in, kisses Serena squarely on the mouth, and Serena finds she doesn’t mind, not in the slightest.

They pay the bill, Bernie insisting on splitting it since it isn’t her birthday, and she didn’t eat the escargot, and Serena is still miffed enough to let her pay half. But they walk to the car hand in hand, the brisk fall weather a pleasant change from the slight warmth of the restaurant.

“Can I schedule something in your calendar for the ninth of January?” Bernie asks as they walk to Serena’s car.

“It’s a bit far in the future, but I might be persuaded,” Serena says, eyebrow quirked, smile playing at her lips. “Let’s see how this weekend goes first.” Her tone is haughty, arched, but she lets Bernie push her against the door of the car, lets Bernie kiss her in the light of the moon, their tongues touching as the streetlamps turn on, learns the singular pleasure of smiling lips pressed to smiling lips, and then drives Bernie home.


	24. i still love her, i don't really care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a million years ago, an anon asked for _I was wondering if you would consider expanding the rowing au? like I love the idea of them having grown up and got together for years and years or whatever and they're invited to be in a charity race or something and like??? you don't have to I just love your fics_
> 
> this isn't...what i expected to write for this prompt? i don't know. it's a strange little fic. but i hope you enjoy! i still don't know anything about rowing, and no one ask me how old they are at any point during this story!!!!!!!!

Bernie Wolfe’s father dies when Serena is in her second year of medical school. She’s not sure what the protocol for this situation is - she and Bernie aren’t dating, but they’re not  _ not _ dating, either. Bernie comes for visits when she has money and time, spends the weekend cozied up to Serena in her small room in a six bedroom house, roommates clomping up and down the stairs on the other side of the door. Serena spends some of her summer vacation at Bernie’s home, she’s met Bernie’s mum and dad and they always greet her with warm smiles.

She decides to go to the funeral, doesn’t know if that’s what Bernie wants, can’t get a hold of her by the phone, explains it away by imagining the chaos of the Wolfe house. Serena packs a small bag, a black dress and black shoes, wears the cleanest, nicest outfit she can find for the train ride. When she gets to the station, she hails a tax; she knows Bernie’s address by heart, from all the letters she’s written, all the letters she’s received, written in the corner of every envelope in Bernie’s determined scrawl. 

It’s not until she gets to Bernie’s door that she starts to doubt her presence here, but it’s too late, and the taxi’s driven off, so all she can do is knock on the door, a sharp rap, and moments later, the door is flung open, Bernie’s dandelion head of hair coming into view. “Serena!” she says, surprise overtaking the sadness that lines her features. “I thought you were another well-meaning church lady with another bloody casserole.” 

Serena almost laughs, but it doesn’t feel right. “Just me, I’m afraid. No room for food in my tote.” Bernie pulls her into a hug, her arms strong and muscular, though she no longer has the excuse of rowing every day. They stand like that for a while, how long, Serena isn’t sure, but she lets herself be held, because she thinks this is what Bernie needs. 

Ingrid Wolfe calls from the living room, asks who was at the door, and that’s what breaks them apart. Serena follows Bernie into the house, their hands loosely linked, and Ingrid’s face softens at the sight. “It’s good of you to be here, Serena,” she says, and grasps Serena’s other hand in both of hers. Serena stands a little awkwardly, a link between the two Wolfe women, doesn’t know how to take this gratitude.

“I’ll take her upstairs, Mum. We’ll be back down in a bit,” Bernie says, pulling Serena after her, towards the stairs and Serena just follows dutifully. When they’re in Bernie’s room, with the door closed, Bernie presses her lips to Serena’s, holds her close, as if she can’t get close enough.

“How’re you doing?” Serena asks, when Bernie pulls away, lets herself be led to Bernie’s bed, and they sit, thigh to thigh, her hand still in Bernie’s grasp. Bernie chokes out a laugh that sounds almost like a sob, and Serena can see the tears forming at the corners of her eyes. “That well, eh?” she says, wraps an arm around Bernie’s shoulders, encourages Bernie’s head to rest on her shoulder, presses a kiss into her scalp. 

The funeral is fancy, full of pomp. Bernard Wolfe was a Major-General in the British Army and he is buried in the manner to which his station demands. Serena is seated behind Bernie and Ingrid, not quite family, but not as far away as a loose acquaintance. She squeezes Bernie’s shoulder once, when she returns to her seat after reading out a psalm in a clear voice, belying the sadness in her eyes. 

Three days later, when Serena’s back at school, back to her studies, Bernie calls her and tells her she’s joining the army.

“It’s what my father would have wanted,” she tells Serena, her voice sure and strong and like there’s no room for argument. So Serena just mumbles a congratulations, thinks of just last week in class when they were discussing PTSD and the trauma associated with serving in the armed forces. She thinks of the girl on the edge of the river, hair bright in the sun, gleaming eyes, thinks of that same girl in military fatigues a million miles away, and knows she’s saying goodbye to the Bernie she met those few years ago, hopes that the Bernie that returns will find some room for her.

\- - -

Time passes, as it is wont to do, and Bernie moves her way through the ranks, spends her days in sand and dust and with a regiment she loves. Serena writes her letters still, something they’ve always done. She signs every one with a heart and a swooping S. Bernie’s letters are more infrequent, but they’re long, full of nothing of importance, just memories of her childhood, reminiscences of their days rowing on opposing teams, brief mentions of how much she thinks of Serena. She talks of working with the medical corps, picking up handy skills for when she’s out in the field away from the medics. She tells this to assuage Serena of worry, but all it does is make Serena fear for the times when Bernie is far away from the doctors. 

She briefly toys with the idea of joining the RAMC, of asking to be assigned near Captain Berenice Wolfe, but knows it’s not for her. She’s not made for trauma, is not particularly good in a crisis. She is good for the day-to-day, she is reliable, and sure. She is a leader, not meant to follow orders but rather wants to give them. She was the cox of her rowing crew, and she knows she will one day be the head of a department at a hospital, knows it with a sureness in her heart.

And then she gets news, terrible and heart-stopping - an explosion, a Hummer flipped over, and Berenice Wolfe transported to Holby Hospital on a stretcher, her entire body held stable. Serena figures out where Holby is, a small city she’s never heard of, books a train ticket there as soon as she can, and sits in the waiting room of a hospital surrounded by men and women in camouflage fatigues, sitting next to Ingrid Wolfe on a small couch, worrying the skin at her nails. She’s working at a hospital in London, wonders if her credentials there could get her in to see Bernie, even if she's just an F1, past the double doors that seem to never open. She thinks that when she’s doing long operations, she’ll at least send a nurse out with updates, thinks she never wants anyone to wait this long to hear news, good or bad. 

As if she wished it into existence, the doors swing open, and a doctor appears, a tall good-looking surgeon with a sort of smug look on his face that Serena immediately loathes. “She’s alive, she’s stable. She’s going to be fine,” he says, holding his mask in his hands, looking at the assemblage and Serena feels like her hand might break from the pressure from Ingrid’s grasp. 

“When can we see her?” Ingrid’s voice is so much like Bernie’s - so like the voice Serena’s heard through long-distance calls, crackling over the telephone wires. The surgeon tells them it’ll be an hour or so before she’s awake from the anaesthesia, says Ingrid can wait in the room, if she likes. “Serena will come too,” Ingrid says, and there’s no room for argument. They leave Bernie’s fellow soldiers behind, Serena promising to let them know the minute she’s awake, the minute they can come into the room. She doesn’t remember any of their names but knows how important they are.

Bernie is on a hospital bed, her skin tanned, yet pale; a medical paradox. There’s an IV stuck in her arm and beeping machines and a large patch of gauze on her neck and Serena claps a hand to her mouth to keep in the sob that’s threatening to spill out. Ingrid pulls a chair right up close to Bernie’s bed, gently picks up one of her hands, limp, long-fingered, and holds it between her own. “She feels cold,” Ingrid says, looking at Serena like she’s lost, and Serena pulls a chair right up next to Ingrid. 

“That happens. But she’s fine. See that machine? That’s monitoring her heart rate. And that’s a good number. And this? That’s making sure she’s not in any pain when she wakes up.” Serena continues to point to things around the room, to identify them, to put Ingrid at ease.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Ingrid says. “Bernie will be glad too.” 

Serena hopes so, still doesn’t know what the protocol for their relationship is, doesn’t know how to categorize it. So she just sits next to Ingrid, their arms brushing, the beeping of hospital machines the only sound as they both stare at the woman on the bed.

\- - -

Bernie is a nightmare when it comes to physical therapy. She wants her body to be able to do exactly what it was able to do before the accident. Serena finds that her bedside manner and patient care are being tested to their very limits by having Bernie Wolfe live with her.

At first, when Bernie was discharged, she went home with her mother. That lasted all of a week before Bernie called Serena, said she couldn’t handle the mothering, the doting, the hovering. Begged Serena to let her crash in her flat, that she’d be no trouble at all. Serena talked to Ingrid, could imagine Bernie fuming in the background at her mother and her best friend discussing her, unable to participate in the conversation. In the end, they decided she could stay with Serena, found a physical therapist at the hospital where Serena works as an F1, and Ingrid let Bernie go.

Serena likes having Bernie close, liked falling asleep to the sound of Bernie’s even breaths, liked the reassurance that Bernie was here, and safe, and that she’d survived. She’s careful with Bernie - too careful, sometimes, and Bernie will pull Serena roughly towards her, kiss her with bruising intensity, a reminder that she isn’t fragile, that she won’t break. 

But then the nights pass into the days, and Serena has to cajole Bernie into her stretches, bribes her to go on walks around the block, when all Bernie wants to do is go for a run. Serena’s housemates laugh at them, say they’re like an old married couple. “She’ll have to live long enough to make that happen,” Serena snipes, pushing Bernie out the door, down the front steps. Bernie forgives her before they’ve even turned the corner, slides her arm through Serena’s, and Serena softens, thinks she always will. 

“Rowing exercises might help,” she suggests one day, late at night, when she’s had a long day. She thinks the pull might help strengthen Bernie’s back muscles, so long as she doesn’t overdo it. She thinks Bernie might find comfort in the disciplined nature of it, of returning to something she loves so well. 

Serena ends up asking her old rowing coach for suggestions, treats Bernie like she treated her rowers back in university, the kind, benevolent cox trying to get the best out of her team. With Bernie, though, instead of high fives, she rewards good performance, good behavior, with gentle kiss to Bernie’s waiting lips, a form of positive reinforcement that Bernie gets used to very quickly. 

Bernie gets a job in London, stays with Serena as she works as a senior registrar in vascular surgery, and there’s never any real talk of what’s next, of anything beyond what they’ll do for dinner that night. When Serena talks about going to America, trying to get an MBA, Bernie is nothing but supportive, agrees with all the logical reasons why a surgeon might also want to have management skills in her arsenal. “You’d be a natural, Serena,” she says, when they’re in bed, facing each other, her breath on Serena’s cheek, and Serena reaches up to tuck a few stray strands of Bernie’s blonde fluff back off her face. 

She dances towards the issue she’s been avoiding all this time. “Harvard is awfully far away,” she says, and Bernie rolls away, rolls to her side, and Serena bites her lip. 

“I’ve never been to America,” Bernie says, looking up at the ceiling, and Serena finds her hand underneath the sheets, slides her own into it, gives it a squeeze. “It’s phone calls and letter writing again - we’ve done it before.”

It’s true, they have. It’s nothing new, but it’s the first time they’ll have done it after doing  _ this _ , after spending every day together, and every night. “There’s email now,” Serena says, glad for the invention. “A little faster than the post.”

“Mmmmm,” Bernie hums, and Serena knows that Bernie doesn’t really like computers, but thinks Bernie will use one, just because Serena’s asked.

She gets into Harvard and no one is surprised, and she’s allowed to audit medicine courses to stay sharp on her skills. The night before she leaves, her things all packed in boxes and suitcases, ready for Bernie to ship overseas once she’s settled into her apartment, she takes Bernie out for dinner. They eat a meal that’s far too fancy, one that will stretch Serena’s already tight wallet, but it’s worth it for the look on Bernie’s face as she takes a bite of steak between her teeth, for the close-eyed pleasure of the red wine that pairs so well with the red meat. They walk back to Serena’s flat hand in hand, and Serena marvels at how far they’ve come, from a chance meeting on the shore of a river years ago to this, walking along a lamp-lit street, with everything that’s happened in the interim between them.

She slides next to Bernie when they’re in bed, bare skin to bare skin, warm and heavy and smooth, her fingers inside Bernie, teasing her, winding her up, laughing as she finally lets Bernie come with a sudden start, her head back against the pillows. “I’ll miss this,” she says for the first time, because she hasn’t let herself think about life without Bernie Wolfe in her bed. Bernie, boneless with pleasure, just curls into Serena, kisses her neck, licks the sweat away. 

Serena flies across the ocean with a bruise on her collarbone, a perfect imprint of Bernie’s teeth. And she doesn’t see Bernie again for five years.

\- - -

Serena gets a letter in the post one day, an invitation to compete in the soon-to-be annual charity alumni boat race for Oxford. They want her to come back as the cox, one of their most celebrated team members in a decade. She flips through the information, doesn’t really recognize the other rowers that have been invited to join in, wonders how she’s supposed to lead a team of strangers. 

She forgets about it, for a week, and then her phone rings, and it’s her old rowing coach, imploring her to come back for the event, says she’s the only one he wants in the front seat. Serena can’t do anything but agree. She sizes herself up in the mirror, pinches at her sides, not quite as slim as she was in the peak of her rowing days. She pulls out her old team zip-up, the dark blue making her eyes shine. It’s faded and well-worn, she wears it often, a comfortable reminder of the happy days of university.

She trains into London a week before the event, to meet her teammates, to remember how it was to lead a boat to victory. Her old coach puts them to work, gets them on rowing machines, goes over strategy with Serena, and she feels like she’s back in university, poring over workouts and charts and staying up too late. 

Serena goes for a run in the morning, and her body complains all the while - it’s been so long since she’s done this. She goes slowly, sets a pace that would make her university self laugh, but it’s been long enough that she forgives herself for not going any faster. And then she hears the sound of feet behind her, looks over her shoulder, and promptly trips over her own feet, because it’s Bernie Wolfe, all blonde hair lit up by the rising sun.

“Easy there, McKinnie,” she says, catching Serena’s elbow and Serena feels the familiar rush of attraction that thrums through her whenever she’s close to Bernie.

“They let you on the Cambridge team?” Serena asks, falling into the familiar banter of their youth, and Bernie laughs.

“It’s all part of a secret plan to distract the cox of the Oxford boat,” she says, pulling Serena into a hug. “I missed you,” she says, whispering into Serena’s hair, her nose pressed into the space behind Serena’s ear.

“You could’ve seen me,” Serena says, but there’s no bite to her words, there’s never been any sort of formality to what they have, she’s not bitter. She was in Massachusetts, she built a life for herself that didn’t include Bernie Wolfe, and Bernie did the same, no animosity between them. But she’s glad, so glad, to see Bernie now.

“Running a hospital yet?” Bernie asks, when she’s pulled away from the hug and they’ve eased back into a slow jog. Serena laughs, and there’s a bit of bitterness there now.

“A female surgeon has enough hoops to jump through - they’re not giving me a hospital yet. But I do have my own ward, a little mess of a thing I’ve been sent to tidy.” She loves her job, it’s true, but she can’t help but feel she’s forever chasing a carrot they’re keeping just out of reach.

“Well, you’ll get there in the end, if I know you,” Bernie says, nudging Serena with her arm, and Serena thinks there is probably no one in the world who knows her as well as Bernie does.

“Coincidentally enough, my job’s in Holby,” Serena says, a twist of fate she hadn’t expected, to end up at the hospital where Bernie was treated those years ago. Bernie has no real reaction to this, just a shrug, and Serena thinks it’s more than likely Bernie doesn’t like to be reminded of that time, doesn’t know how to make it better for either of them.

She and Bernie run together every morning, trading friendly barbs, sharing the bits of their lives that have shifted since they last saw one another. Bernie’s acting as an army consultant, her injury keeping her off the front lines, and she feels stir crazy and angry, but trying to make the best of it. Serena wishes Bernie’d gone into medicine, thinks she could use some of those army tactics on her ward, but can’t really justify bringing on an untrained army officer to help her run things.

\- - -

Serena is familiar with the feeling of race day, the fluttering flags, the excitement that hums through the air. She wakes up early, goes out for one last run, Bernie meeting up with her before they go along the length of the river. “Just like old times,” Bernie says, when they pause to stretch. 

Serena hums, lets herself revel in the sight of Bernie’s long, lean body, still so toned and muscular, those strong arms, those rower’s thighs. Bernie laughs when she sees Serena staring, and leans in to kiss Serena, the first time they’ve done this in five years, and Serena’s arms go around her, without thought, without warning, just like they’ve always done.

“You know, if I remember correctly, you never bought me dinner after I trounced you at our last university race,” Serena says, loath to move too far from Bernie, letting her lips rest against Bernie’s cheek. 

“I did take you home, though,” Bernie says, her laughter ruffling the strands of Serena’s hair, and the feeling of it all is so familiar, so comfortable that Serena’s heart expands, grows, melts. 

“When I beat you again today, will you take me to dinner?” Serena asks, pulling back just enough so that she can see Bernie’s dark eyes. 

Before Bernie can answer, they’re interrupted by the rest of Serena’s team, also going for a morning run, and Serena curses herself for insisting her team develop these good habits. “Fraternizing with the enemy, McKinnie?” a woman ten years Serena’s senior calls out as they run past, and there’s no way to hide it, they’re each dressed in their team colors, and Bernie’s bright blue is hard to mistake for anything else. 

“Just angling for strategy,” she calls back and her team laughs as they run past. There’s a friendlier attitude towards the race today, they’ve all moved past the time when rowing was the most important thing, they have other lives, other interests, they’re just reliving a snippet of their glory days, happy to remembered, happy to be include.

Serena breaks away from Bernie with an apologetic smile and a wink, lopes after her team. She’s tried to implement some of the things she remembers from university, the quiet moments before the race starts, so they can coordinate their breathing. She sees Bernie’s blonde hair in the sun, in the Cambridge boat next to hers, feels that familiar thrill at the sight of her, still wonders what it would be like to be the cox of Bernie’s team, to have that face right in front of hers. She sees Bernie glance over, sees Bernie catch her staring, sees that familiar smirk, and Serena turns back to her team, a flush rising on her cheeks. 

Cambridge ends up winning, just barely, but Serena can’t even find it in herself to be mad, because she gets to see Bernie celebrate, sees Bernie jump into the water in her glee. Gets to watch Bernie climb out of the water too, wet and happy, and eyes searching out Serena’s face. She holds out a towel to Bernie as she climbs out of the Thames, wraps her in it, holds her close.

“I guess dinner’s on me tonight, then?” Serena asks, and Bernie smiles, kisses Serena square on the lips, the water dripping from her fringe, falling on Serena’s cheeks. 

“And tomorrow?” Bernie asks.

“And tomorrow, you can take me out for the dinner you owe me,” she says, kissing Bernie back, rubbing at her damp face with the corner of the towel hanging around Bernie’s shoulders. “And the day after that…” She trails off, not sure of where to go from there. She has to get back to work, has been away long enough.

“And the day after that, I’ll get on the train with you to Holby, and we’ll figure it out from there,” Bernie says, and Serena thinks that it’s true, thinks that they will, because that’s how they’ve always been, bumping against each other through life, like two boats on a river. 


	25. every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for: Five Times Bernie Knew She Was Going to Get Laid
> 
> i almost quit writing forever! but some kind people were nice enough to placate me and tell me i was being dumb! so i wrote this! who knows! ah! (i’m being facetious, i’ll probably never stop writing about these two dodos)
> 
> title is a neil gaiman quote from "fragile things"

**one.**

They’ve been fighting, fighting for days. It started with a patient whose head was filled with ideas from the internet and magical cures, and Serena wanted to make dreams come true, and Bernie wanted to get the job done and move on to the next. And it’s snowballed from there. Bernie hasn’t spent more than five minutes in the office in three days. She takes her paperwork out to the nurse’s station, has commandeered a computer out there. Serena’s drawn the blinds on the windows and barks at anyone who knocks on the door. She’s made three F1s cry in the last week. Bernie escapes to the roof more often than not, kicks rocks around while she tries to get a handle on the situation.

They still go home together, and come to work together, but there’s a stony silence that just lives between them, neither one willing to bridge the gap first. Jason has opted to stay with Alan, has point blank told them he thinks they’re both being immature and that he doesn’t care to sit in the car with either of them. Bernie saw Serena’s eyes soften at that comment, but then her gaze slanted back to Bernie and hardens, all in an instant.

Bernie wonders if they’re done, if this is what will make everything fall apart. She was never home long enough with Marcus for a proper fight, for a proper apology. Things just fell away when she left, and nothing seemed important enough to bring up again when she came back. But this is different, and everything seems important, and Bernie thinks she wants to fight for what she has with Serena, but she doesn’t quite know how to make it so they’re fighting on the same side again.

She waits in line at Pulses, briefly toys with the idea of getting Serena a coffee too. Before she can stop herself, she orders two drinks, balances them in one hand as she presses the button for the elevator. She taps her foot impatiently as she heads up to AAU, goes straight to the office, not giving herself a chance to drop off the coffee with someone else, to decide she won’t make the peace offering. The office is empty, so Bernie drops her things on her side of the desk, puts the coffee in the middle of Serena’s desk, feeling the slightest bit of regret, and heads back out to the floor, to her station at the computer.

Bernie doesn’t see Serena for the rest of their shift, they miss each other by minutes, scrubbing into surgery just as the other is changing out of scrubs, heading to the washroom just as the other goes into the office, all day long. But when it’s time to go home, Serena appears by the nurse’s station, coat on, purse slung over her shoulder, and the briefest of smiles for Bernie. Bernie thinks maybe the coffee wasn’t a mistake after all.

They walk to the elevator, closer than they have all week, shoulders almost touching. Serena presses the button and they wait, silence thick in the air. As the doors close, Serena takes a deep breath, like she’s about to say something, and Bernie turns toward her, ever hopeful that Serena will fix this, make it right, because Bernie doesn’t know how to. But instead of talking, Serena leans forward and pulls the elevator stop, faces Bernie with a glint in her eye, dark and heady, and Bernie has seen that look before, knows it means they’re going to do something better than talking.

She’s pressed against the wall, Serena’s hot and heady mouth on hers, holding Bernie’s wrists in her hands, pressing them into the cold metal, her short nails ever so slightly pressing into the skin, and Bernie lets out a low moan, can’t help it. The sound makes Serena pull back, to look at Bernie again, her eyes almost black. Her hands let Bernie’s go, start scrabbling at Bernie’s top, pulling at it, ignoring the buttons, and Bernie hears the sound of thread snapping, hears the clatter on the ground and knows she can’t wear this shirt again unless Serena mends it for her, wonders if whatever this is in the elevator at the hospital will be what makes Serena willing to mend Bernie’s shirts for her again. Serena’s teeth scrape against Bernie’s neck, the long ridge of tendon that starts below her earlobe. Her hands are on Bernie’s breasts, rolling her nipples between her fingers, working in efficient tandem, and Bernie’s head hits the wall of the elevator, her eyes closed, her hands loose at her side, because she can see that Serena is in charge of this particular encounter.

She distantly hears yelling, wonders if people think they’re stuck in here, but can’t bring herself to care, because Serena has lowered her trousers, pushed aside her pants, and has her mouth, warm and wet, right against Bernie’s clit, her tongue roughly lathing the sensitive nub, back and forth and Bernie is in a bit of a frenzy, because Serena is going faster than she usually does, no real foreplay, going straight to it. It’s been a week since she’s had her hands on Serena’s pale skin, a week since she’s slid her fingers between their smooth bodies, a week since she’s whispered to Serena that she more than likes her, a week since she’s heard Serena’s answering chuckle, sleepy and sated. This is different, this is not as warm, not as full of affection, but it’s making Bernie wet and hot and Serena pushes her over the edge quickly, holds Bernie steady, her hands on Bernie’s thighs.

Bernie looks down at Serena, moves to put her hand against Serena’s head, to gently stroke at her hair. “What was that?” she asks, because as much as she enjoyed it, it’s not like Serena, it’s not like them, they don’t do this at work.

“I missed it,” Serena says simply, wipes at her mouth, and Bernie catches her hand before it can fall back to her side, pulls Serena up, doesn’t pay any attention to the trousers still pooled at her ankles.

“Me too,” Bernie says, still not sure how to broach their fight, their argument.

“Let’s talk at home,” Serena says, drops their joined hands, reaches to push the elevator stop back in and Bernie makes a noise of protest, gestures to her disheveled state, and Serena snorts, pulls back.

It’s a bit awkward, pulling her clothes back on over her sticky body, a little ripe, a little sore. She buttons her shirt to the best of her ability, just the button at the top missing, in the corner of the elevator. Serena smirks at it, pats at Bernie’s shoulder, smooths an invisible wrinkle from her blouse, then rests her fingers right above where the missing button should be, right against Bernie’s skin, her heartbeat thumping, pulsing against Serena’s fingers. “I’ll fix this,” she says, and Bernie doesn’t know if she’s talking about the button or their fight.

****

**two.**

Bernie books a hotel for the weekend, the first weekend they’ve had off in months, between emergency surgeries and the unforgiving schedule of the NHS. She’s trying to surprise Serena, trying to figure out the best way to tell Serena she loves her without having to actually say the words.

She makes an appointment at a hair salon, makes an effort to look her best. The hair stylist looks at Bernie’s hair with no small amount of skepticism, asks if Bernie’s been trimming it herself, and Bernie admits that she has, unwilling to meet the stylist’s eyes in the mirror. In the end, it’s just a trim, just covering up her roots, brightening it all up a bit. She looks at herself in the mirror when it’s all over, the ends of her hair just brushing her chin, still defiantly messy, and like wisps of corn silk, so pale and light. She leaves a large tip, if only because she wasn’t made to feel too badly about the fact that she’s never given much thought to hair care in her previous fifty years on the planet.

Bernie buys a new top, a sweater that clings and drapes and has a low vee and isn’t something she’d ever have bought for Marcus, but is more than willing to do things like this for Serena, because she likes the way Serena’s eyes light up, likes the way they track her figure through her clothes. She buys the sweater because she can see without trying it on that it will fit, knows that it will look decent, thinks she might not spend all that long wearing it anyway.

She’s waiting for Serena to come home, dressed nicely, even a swipe of eyeliner and mascara, a pass of lip gloss, and two bags neatly packed by the door (she’s long since learned what Serena considers a necessity for a weekend away). Her hands self-consciously drift into her hair - Serena’s never seen it done professionally, just sighs at Bernie’s hair clippings in the sink, at the store-bought packs of dye in the trash. She wants to be good for Serena, wants to be everything Serena seems to think she is.

The sound of keys in the lock make Bernie sit up straight, her back snapping into perfect army posture, her eyes practically boring a hole into the door, waiting for Serena to come in. And Serena does, drops her purse on the table by the door, sighs loudly, calls that she’s home, a phrase that never fails to warm Bernie’s heart. And then she walks into the living room and freezes, has to lean against the wall when sees Bernie sitting on the couch, has to take in the picture in front of her.

“You look nice,” she manages, her voice a little croaky, the way it gets when she’s feeling a bit overwhelmed. Bernie blushes, even though she’s gotten the intended response - she’s never liked compliments.

“I thought - I thought we might go away for the weekend,” she says, and Serena’s face lights, warms, and she comes into the room fully, leans on the arm of the sofa, her thigh pressing against Bernie’s shoulder.

“The whole weekend?” Serena asks, her mouth playful, her eyebrow quirked. “What will we do with ourselves?”

“I’ve a few ideas,” Bernie says, rather bravely, never quite as good as Serena at flirting. She nudges at Serena’s thigh.

“What time do we have to leave?” Serena asks and Bernie’s brow furrows, wonders if Serena’s made a plan for the weekend too.

“Um, whenever you like? Do you need a shower, a change? Dinner?” Bernie asks, and Serena shakes her head, leans down, her whole body at an awkward angle, but she manages to press her lips to Bernie’s to push her back into the soft cushions and Bernie thinks they can take as long as they need to get to the hotel.

“If this is the thanks for just booking the hotel, what’ll it be when you see our room?” Bernie manages as Serena mouths her earlobe, her tongue delicately tracing the skin there, and Bernie slides her hands under Serena’s top, loose and silky, slides her hands against Serena’s skin, just as silky.

****

**three.**

Bernie’s balancing her whisky in the palm of her hand and dangling a glass of Shiraz between her fingers, holding her phone with her other hand and maneuvering through Albie’s, because Serena’s planted herself in the comfortable chairs that are far enough from the bar to provide the slightest bit of a challenge. She’s squeezed to the side, room enough for Bernie to slide next to her and they’re touching from shoulder to thigh, their cheeks flushed from alcohol and the room and each other.

There’s karaoke in the corner, and Serena has threatened to sign them up for a cheesy duet, but Bernie’s counter-threat, that she won’t know any of the songs anyway, has been enough to keep Serena in her seat.

Coworkers flit in and out of their little corner, Morven stopping by just to say hello, Raf and Fletch to share a glass of wine, and Ric sits across from them, trying to goad Serena into doing shots. Bernie laughs, low and throaty, the whisky coating her throat, and she thinks this is what she always thought happiness was, being surrounded by people she cares for, the person she likes best at her side.

On her third glass of wine, Serena starts drawing patterns in Bernie’s thigh, occasionally darting towards Bernie’s knee, where she’s especially sensitive, her whole body flinching, causing Serena to chuckle and lean even further into Bernie. “It’s like your little dance,” she says, “Much more coordinated than the last time you took me out onto the dancefloor.” It’s said with a hint of a challenge, because they both know karaoke will give way to dancing, and Serena’s making it clear now that she would like to dance with Bernie tonight, before they go home.

Ric clears their throat because Serena’s been staring into Bernie’s eyes for what some might deem to be ‘too long,’ and Bernie’s been staring back, and it’s hard to penetrate the thick atmosphere they can build between them.

Bernie’s on whisky three or four, she’s lost count, when the music changes, when the microphone gets put away, and Serena stands, holds her hand out to Bernie expectantly, and Bernie can do nothing but follow. They’re neither particularly gifted at dancing, but Serena carries it off with enough confidence that no one gives her a second glance. Bernie’s more stiff, self-conscious, just stands behind Serena and rocks slightly, sways, and then Serena’s hands catch hers, pull them around her waist. And she’s _rubbing_ herself against Bernie’s groin and Bernie knows she’s had too much wine, is grateful that Ric has left for the night, that she doesn’t see anyone else from AAU still around, wonders if that’s why Serena’s doing this now, because there’s no one from work to see them.

Their fingers are entwined, sitting on Serena’s hipbones, and Serena’s setting a slow pace, but one that makes a lump appear in Bernie’s throat because she can imagine them recreating this same pace in a decidedly different setting. She decides to tell Serena as much, leans in to whisper, lets her lips press against Serena’s ear, nips ever so slightly before pulling away.

And then Serena’s using their joined hands to lead Bernie to their coats, to lead them outside. There’s a stand of taxis waiting and Serena practically pushes Bernie into one, just manages to get out their address before kissing Bernie, long and deep, her tongue delving into Bernie’s mouth with no preamble, swiping along Bernie’s teeth, mixing wine and whisky. The driver clears his throat and Serena pays him no mind, just mutters to Bernie that she’ll tip him extra when he gets them home.

****

**four.**

It’s a known fact that the heads of AAU are known to flirt with each other, that there is no circumstance where Serena Campbell will not find the opportunity to say something couched in promise, in meaning, in innuendo. More often than not, it happens in theatre, her mouth covered with a mask, her eyes only visible, dancing with mirth above the flimsy paper. Bernie gives as good as she gets, when there’s an open body on the table in front of them, never as shy as she is when they’re sat in a pub or in their home. Her husky voice can be just as laced with irony, with humor, her eyes can flash just as much.

Sometimes it gets to be too much, sometimes Bernie has to shift a little uncomfortably, a quirk of Serena’s eyebrow going straight to the pit of her stomach, roiling things. Serena knows what it means when Bernie does it, when Bernie has to look away, moves her feet ever so slightly, the sound of the soft fabric of her scrubs rubbing against itself at Bernie’s thighs. They’re both good surgeons, dedicated and talented, never letting the headiness of their banter get in the way of doing their jobs, but Serena does so like to tease.

They stay in the scrub room far longer than they need to, outlasting the nurses, the anesthesiologist. Bernie washes her hands and Serena leans against the sink, just close enough that Bernie can feel the heat of her through thin cotton. “Good job, Ms. Wolfe,” Serena says, her voice sardonic, her eyebrow raised in challenge, her foot reaching out to tap against Bernie’s.

“You too, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie says, because they play at being professional, usually when there’s no one around to see. Serena drops the slightest wink, a wink that means Serena is thinking of things that aren’t work, that aren’t surgery, that aren’t paperwork. She’s thinking of things she wants to do to Bernie, of the things she whispers to Bernie at night, when her hand is between Bernie’s thighs and they’re sweaty and hot and in love. She talks about pushing Bernie against the glass wall of the scrub room, of flinging her stethoscope across the room. She talks about fingering Bernie to three orgasms before she can even take a breath, of licking her hands clean, then washing them in the scrub sink. She talks about ripping off the ridiculous paper cap Bernie insists on wearing instead of buying one of her own, throwing it across the room, dragging her fingers through Bernie’s messy hair.

Sometimes it’s all Bernie can think of, when she’s washing her hands before surgery. It’s usually all she can think of when she’s rinsing off after surgery, with Serena close by and _winking_. Bernie knows her cheeks are hot, knows Serena can see it. She knows when they get home, she’s going to push Serena against the door and have her as quickly as possible, because Jason gets home after them, but not by much. She knows that when they’re in bed, Serena will delight in telling Bernie everything she thought about doing to her in the scrub room of the hospital, making it impossible for Bernie to think of anything else the next time she has to prep for surgery.

Bernie knows Serena has a special fondness for this room, knows the idea holds her in thrall. Bernie herself harbors fantasies of being pressed against the walls of their office, of being pushed against the filing cabinet, of bracing herself in the visitors chair as Serena bends between her legs. She doesn’t tell Serena these things because she doesn’t know if she can bear the idea of Serena’s voice, breathy and _dirty_ whispering those fantasies to her at night, doesn’t know if she could work in their office after hearing that. So she decides, for both their sake, to keep their fantasies confined to theatre - a turn of phrase that holds a far different meaning now.

Before they leave the scrub room, Bernie kisses Serena, full and wet and sloppy and quick, lets her know that _she_ knows what they’ll be getting up to that night. And all she hears is Serena’s low throaty laugh as she leaves, the door swinging behind her.

****

**five.**

They’ve come home from work, tired and worn and a little sad, because every day comes with a little sadness, not enough victories. There’s no day where they win them all. But Bernie is here with Serena, and that’s a win in and of itself. They make dinner, Bernie chopping vegetables and Serena making a marinade, in charge of the meat. They split a bottle of wine, red, teeth-staining. Serena’s lips are a little purple, but lovely and smiling all the same.

They eat in the living room, next to each other on the couch, legs touching, Bernie’s toes just sitting on top of Serena’s. It’s easier than the dining room table, less formal, less pressure. They eat in silence, the only sound the gentle chewing of roasted vegetables, the swallow of wine.

Serena puts on an old episode of Miss Marple and Bernie leans against her, tries to guess the murderer, is proven wrong several times over, and manages to be surprised at the end. Serena laughs, a tired, fond chuckle vibrating against Bernie’s body.

They go upstairs together, Serena first, Bernie trailing, turning off the lights as she goes. Serena goes into the bathroom first, Bernie can hear the sounds of the faucet, of Serena washing her face. She pulls off her shirt, unhooks her bra, sits on the bed in just her denims, not quite ready to slide out of them. She’s reaching for the button clasp when Serena reenters the room, and looks at Bernie, her eyes going slightly wild, and she stands in front of Bernie, rests her hands on Bernie’s shoulders.

Bernie parts her legs, makes room for Serena between them, looks up her face, her beautiful, tired face, free of make-up, pink from scrubbing, and cranes her neck up to meet Serena’s lips, a gentle kiss. But Serena doesn’t let her pull away, follows Bernie’s mouth, pushes them back against the bed and Bernie goes willingly.

Bernie likes it - loves it - when Serena surprises her, when they have sex against the wall, when Serena leans her back against Bernie’s chest as they kneel on the bed, Bernie’s hand sliding down the beautiful expanse of Serena’s torso, a wide expanse bared for her eyes alone, when they kiss for minutes, hours on the couch, interrupted only by Jason’s arrival, when they stare at each other across the halls of the hospital, she loves all of it, the building of tension, the release as she comes over Serena’s fingers, or her mouth. But she loves this too, the slow, quiet way they make love when they’ve had a long day, familiar and steady, comfortable but not boring, never boring.

She rolls them over, Serena against the soft duvet now, her fringe falling away from her forehead, and Bernie leans down to kiss her, slips her hands under Serena’s shirt, lifts it up, over her head, tosses it to the floor, and presses herself to Serena, skin to skin. They move slowly, like they’re learning each other, like it’s the first time, like it’s the last time, but Bernie knows they’ll never be done.


	26. it's up to you to do the stitching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _delightfullyambiguous prompted: Tough days on AAU equals foot rubs and head massages. Or just napping on the sofa and reheating day old takeout. And sometimes getting into pyjamas and bed at 8pm because that is the biggest luxury and it's nice to have someone there that gets it._
> 
>  
> 
> literally what it says on the tin. short and sweet fluff for a friday night. title is a quote from "angels in america"

It’s been a hard day, too many losses, no wins to speak of. Having to declare time of death is one thing, having to declare it three times in twelve hours is quite another, and Serena feels so small in the face of this day, feels so separate from herself that she isn’t sure how to reassimilate. She sits in the chair at her desk, stares at her computer screen blankly, her hand not even on the keyboard, not even reaching for the mouse. She hears the door open, can’t make herself look up, but she knows it’s Bernie, knows it from the sound of her shoes, the smell of her soap. 

“Up you get,” Bernie says, her voice soft and steady, and she holds her hand out, waiting to be grasped by Serena’s. She isn’t sure what makes her take Bernie’s hand, she hasn’t known the woman for that long, has had her on AAU for even less time. But Bernie’s grip is sure and firm, and it feels like she’s helping shoulder the load. She’s had a hard day too, Serena thinks.

Bernie drives Serena to her flat, says that Jason is fine for the night, they sorted it out before he left the hospital, that Fletch is having dinner with him, that he’ll give Jason a ride to work in the morning. Serena doesn’t squawk at Bernie’s audacity, making these plans without consulting her. She doesn’t have it in her, right now. Maybe in the morning.

Serena follows Bernie up the stairs, dusty old carpet, stained from use, and leans against the wall as Bernie fumbles for her keys, thinks she could fall asleep right here. But Bernie is there, gently pushes her out of the hallway and inside. It’s clean, cleaner than Serena might’ve guessed, and that’s all she can really register right now. Bernie steers her to the couch and Serena leans into the cushions, smells Bernie’s soap here too. 

She only realizes she’s drifted off when she wakes up, the smell of Chinese food tickling her nose. She rubs at her eyes, blinks into the low lamplight of the living room, sees Bernie curled up on the other end of the sofa, watching Serena with something like worry in her eyes. “All right?” she asks, and Serena nods.

“More tired than I thought is all,” she says, and her voice is creaky with sleep. 

“There’s takeaway. From yesterday.” Bernie admits the latter part of the statement with a shy smile, ducking her head slightly in embarrassment. Bernie’d planned so much, Serena thinks, to take care of her, but didn’t think what to do with Serena once she got her into her flat.

Serena reaches for a plate, steam rising from the rice, the fork sliding against the porcelain dish as she moves it into her lap. Bernie tosses a paper napkin at her, and Serena slips it between the plate and her thigh, a tiny white flag of protection.

The warm food settles her a little, gets her feeling cozy, and she just manages to put the plate back on the coffee table before her eyes drift close. The last thing she remembers is mumbling out a thanks, doesn’t know what Bernie says in response. She wakes up in the morning with a blanket draped over her, both pillows mashed under her head, and she leaves before Bernie can emerge from her bedroom, just calls a cab and sends a quick text to her host to let her know they’ll see each other at work.

\- - -

Serena’s misplaced her hideous, orthopedist-recommended, horrifying black shoes. She can’t find them anywhere, doesn’t know if she’s left them at Bernie’s, or if they’re just in the bottom of her locker, gone into some alternate dimension. The day is long and feels even longer because her feet are sore from having to resort to an old, too-small pair of trainers. She sees Bernie hopping around from bed to bed, and resents those new, bright white shoes on her feet, no doubt bought in some fancy shop catering to people who exercised. 

She slips her feet out of her shoes, slides her socks off and rubs at the sole of her foot, flexes her fingers between the spaces in her toes, tries to release the cramps, the stiffness. She wrinkles her nose a little at the smell, hopes it doesn’t linger. The office door opens, Bernie standing in the frame, the light from AAU haloing her, and Serena wonders if she’ll ever stop feeling the fluttering in her stomach at the sight of Bernie. 

“What’s wrong?” Bernie asks, moving to sit in the visitor’s chair closest to Serena’s desk, the chair she sits in more often than her own, says it’s because she likes to be nearer to Serena, that she can work on charts just as easily there as across the room. Serena doesn’t say anything because she thinks it’s sweet, the woman who ran across countries in fear now thrives on closeness.

“Just sore,” Serena says, “And perhaps a little bit smelly.” She smiles ruefully at Bernie, pulls her hand away from her foot, twists her ankle back and forth. Bernie smiles right back at Serena, beautiful and happy, and reaches for Serena’s feet, pulls Serena closer, the wheels on the swivel chair offering no resistance, and both of Serena’s feet end up in Bernie’s lap. 

The lights are low, just the lamp in the corner on. It’s the end of the day, they’re both tired, worn out, no one will bother them, the night shift’s on duty as it is. Bernie presses her thumbs into the soles of Serena’s feet, proving herself to be ambidextrous in this task, her fingers moving in tandem. Serena leans her head back, almost groans in pleasure, because there’s something about this that brings her almost as much joy as when Bernie’s hands are put to work elsewhere. 

She thinks it’s the easiness of it, the familiarity, the things she always wanted out of a serious relationship, the things she always thought she would get someday, the things she never did, until now. Bernie is by no means perfect, her wrinkled clothes and lack of a datebook, among many other things, proving that point, but she seems to instinctively know how to take care of Serena, and that’s worth more than all the other things. 

Eventually Serena dislodges Bernie’s hands, suggests she wash them before they head home. She drops a kiss to Bernie’s scalp and waits for her at the elevators, her bag slung over one shoulder, Bernie’s bag in her other hand. They get onto the elevator together, shoulders brushing, fingertips grazing, and Serena lets her pinky hook onto Bernie’s as they walk out to the car.

When they’re home and upstairs in their bedroom, Serena sits behind Bernie on the bed, one knee on either side of Bernie’s hips, and her hands on Bernie’s back, rubbing away the tension she’s gained during the day, working the knots out with forceful, purposeful fingers. And then her hands move up to Bernie’s neck, into Bernie’s hair, massaging at her scalp, her fingernails scraping through the strands, and Bernie’s head is lolling back, a blissful smile on her face. The long days are hard, getting harder all the time, and Serena would trade them away if she could, but they’re made easier by this, by Bernie at her side.

\- - -

Serena’s first day back is not an easy one. There are eyebrow raises at her hair, grey and fluffy, no longer the sleek dyed Serena Campbell that existed before. She’s different now, thinks there are more important things than making sure her roots are covered. She hears an F1 say something about “Old Lady Campbell” under his breath, snaps at him that if he’d like to see the inside of an operating theatre any time soon, he should watch his words, knows that the outburst has only earned her more stares, more gossip. She swipes a hand through her hair self-consciously, thinks this was all easier in France, all easier with wine and cheese to spare, all easier with Bernie.

Raf buys her lunch, comes to her office to share a sandwich with her, to catch her up on gossip, but Serena’s heart isn’t in it. She feels like a stranger in this place that once felt like her only home. She scrubs in on surgeries, is being eased back into the swing of things. She enjoys the familiarity of washing her hands, of tying the strings of her scrub cap into a neat bow. She even likes her scrubs, a uniform she recognizes in the midst of all that’s different.

The day is long, and she feels sharp and brittle when it’s over, when she drives home alone. She sees a light on inside, wonders if she left it on in the morning, can’t remember what she did two hours ago let alone nine hours earlier. She eases her car into the garage, presses the button to slide the door shut, and lets herself into her home through the door into her kitchen. 

She’s greeted with the smell of pasta cooking, sees a bottle of red sitting uncorked on the counter, a glass poured and waiting for her, another one half-empty on the coffee table.

“I thought you’d come in the front door.” Bernie’s voice comes from behind Serena and she whirls around to see her standing there in the doorframe, the same tall, leggy woman that left Paris for Sudan those months ago. She practically launches herself at Bernie, holds her tightly, breathes in the clean smell of her soap, wonders if she’s managed to commission a shipment of it all the way across the world, because she smells exactly the same.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Bernie says, and Serena feels the tears gathering at the corners of her eyes because as much as she loves this, as much as she loves Bernie, all she wants to do is climb into bed and be done with this day. She pulls back from Bernie, and sees the concern flash in Bernie’s eyes, feels Bernie’s thumb come up to wipe a tear away, comes away with a smudge of mascara too.

Without saying a word, Bernie shuts off the stove, moves the pot to the back burner, grabs the bottle of wine in one hand, balances the glasses in her other. “Let’s go upstairs,” she says, and once more Serena feels as if Bernie just understands what she needs better than anyone else in the world, feels weak at relief that there’s someone in this world who understands it the same way she does. 

Bernie shuts off light switches with practiced moves, her elbows and hips doing what her full hands cannot, and Serena leads them up the stairs, sheds her coat, her blouse, lets them slide to the floor, knows she’ll be mad at herself tomorrow, can’t find herself to care in this moment. Bernie sets the glasses on the bedside table, disappears into Serena’s closet, comes out with pajama bottoms for them both, and two of Serena’s old, ratty shirts. She throws one each at Serena, takes off her own clothes in swift movements, not even giving Serena a real opportunity to appreciate her tanned skin, the new freckles on her shoulders. Serena pulls her vest off over her head, kicks off her trousers, stands for a few moments in nothing but her bra and pants, feels old and tired, weighty with the world settled as a mantle on her shoulders. And then she slides into the sweats, gets under the covers, and waits for Bernie to follow suit. She wraps her arms around Bernie, places a kiss, small and sweet, to the base of Bernie’s neck, and closes her eyes, even though the sun hasn’t set yet, even though it’s a few hours before she’d go to sleep normally. She feels Bernie relax into the embrace, hears the small noises she makes as her body settles for sleep. Serena smells the clean smell of Bernie’s soap, the tiniest of smiles making her lips crooked, and she lets herself fall asleep.


	27. they'll be riding today, so look out for those beauties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _anonymous prompted: Serena takes up cycling to work in the mornings after being talked into it. Each morning she spots a particular jogger and comes to rely upon seeing her every day._
> 
>  
> 
> title is from "bicycle race" by queen

Serena’s car breaks down, the third time that month. The first was on the day of Elinor’s play, a convenient excuse to miss an event she didn’t particularly want to attend anyway, and so she didn’t mind much in the end. The second was after a long day of work, and was excuse enough to go to Albie’s instead and drink a bottle of wine, then pour herself into a cab. The third time it breaks down, it occurs to Serena to think of it as a nuisance. It gets towed to the nearest auto shop and they tell her it will be a few days before they can get the parts in, suggest that she find an alternate means of getting herself to and from work.

It’s Jason who suggests she takes up cycling, reminds her she has a bike collecting dust in the garage. He looks up on the internet how to check tire pressure, how to make sure everything is in working order, even gets down on his hands and knees with a spare rag to oil up the chain. Serena thinks he likes a project, likes to see things through from beginning to end. She smiles at him, happy to see him happy. And then he tells her she should wear a helmet, that it’s the recommended safety procedure in Holby, and failure to do so could result in a fine. He picks up and dusts off a pink helmet that must have belonged to Elinor, holds it out to Serena so she can adjust the nylon straps to fit around her chin, and she thinks she’s probably never looked more ridiculous.

She’s almost late to work the next day, forgetting somehow that it takes longer to cycle to work than to drive, and doesn’t plan accordingly. She’s sure Jason will scold her for it later, wonders if he can be prevailed upon to draw her up a timetable. She’s shaky to start, her muscles protesting at the unfamiliar activity. “Come on, old girl,” she mutters to herself as she finally gets the bicycle to balance on its thin tires, and begins to move forward.

Her second day cycling, she’s more confident, more sure of herself. She goes a little faster, starts to enjoy the breeze against her face, forgets how she looks with the helmet on her head. She passes a jogger, a tall, thin woman, wearing Lycra and expensive shoes, her hair bright in the sun, like a dandelion springing up in a field. She whizzes past the runner, keeps moving and doesn’t think about her for the rest of the day.

Cycling home is surprisingly less difficult, even when her day doesn’t go well. She churns her frustrations against the pedals, channels her losses into speed, often gets home faster than it took her to get to work in the morning. As streetlamps go past her in a blur, she thinks of the jogger from the morning, blonde hair like a streetlamp illuminating the dark sidewalk.

She feels her phone buzz against her thigh as she’s cycling to work on the third day, doesn’t let it slow her motion - she thinks she’s found her rhythm now. She passes the jogger again, slows ever so slightly to take her in, tries to size her up, gauge her age, who she is, and forgets about her phone call. She spends the rest of the day trying to make up the story of the jogger, a woman in her fifties who spends every morning running, then goes to her job as - here’s where Serena’s imagination stalls, because she wants to give this mysterious woman an exciting job, can’t imagine her doing something as mundane as sitting behind a desk, filling in spreadsheets. It’s not until after lunch that she checks her messages, sees the missed call from earlier, finds out her car is ready to be picked up.

She doesn’t stop cycling to work.

\- - -

It’s been a month of taking out her bicycle in the morning, clipping the helmet under her chin, throwing a leg over the frame and pushing off. Serena likes to think she can feel the change in her body, imagines she’s becoming more streamlined, the wind whizzing past her aquiline body. The reality is she still drinks wine and indulges on pasta, and she’s come to accept her body as it is, loves it even. But when she rides to work, she feels different, freer, stronger, and she loves that too.

She passes the jogger every day, doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t know what she’d say, doesn’t think it’s appropriate to shout something out in passing, either.

But one day, as she’s passing by, the blonde woman looks to her left, looks right into Serena’s eyes, brown eyes meeting brown eyes, and Serena forgets that her feet are connected to the pedals, forgets that she is even riding a bike, and promptly topples over.

Her face is red and her elbow is skinned, and this isn’t the way she imagined meeting the jogger for the first time. But she looks up, and there is the towheaded beauty, standing over her, head haloed by the sun, looking for all the world like some sort of angel, and Serena rolls her eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.

“All right?” the woman asks, crouching to Serena’s level. “Did you hurt anything?”

“Just my pride,” Serena mutters. “And it seems I’ll have a battle scar on my elbow.” The jogger unzips the pocket of her jacket, light and thin, and made of a fabric that clings to her body.

“I always have bandages. It’s usually me that needs stitching up,” she says, her voice warm, humor lacing her words, and Serena can just see the edge of a scar along her neck, thinks she’s been stitched up more than once, maybe. She holds out her arm without thinking, lets the woman stick the adhesive bandage to her elbow, press down lightly around the abraded skin. “I’m Bernie Wolfe,” she says, lets her hand slide from Serena’s elbow to her hand, holds it briefly, warm skin to warm skin, her fingers smooth, uncalloused.

“Serena Campbell.” Serena’s mouth is dry and she wishes she had a reason to hold Bernie’s hand longer. But Bernie lets their grip go, reaches up to straighten Serena’s helmet, gone ever so slightly askew, a light touch and a smile on her face.

“Ride safe, Ms. Campbell,” she says, pushing up from her crouch, and Serena can see a bit of stiffness in her frame, adds it to her catalog of this woman’s attribute, adds it to the list of things that will help her fill in the mystery of her life, because she doesn’t think they’ll ever speak again. She watches Bernie lope off, then stands, dusts herself off, pulls up her bike, and tries not to wince at the feeling of her scraped skin stretching as she bends her elbow to continue her ride.

\- - -

She takes a different route to work the next day, adds five minutes to her time, doesn’t have a spare moment to get cup of coffee before she’s thrown into her day, feels sour about it and doesn’t let herself think for one moment that she’s feeling miffed about missing out on seeing the bright blonde hair of Bernie Wolfe.  And when, later that night, she admits that she has only herself to blame for robbing herself of witnessing it, she knows she won’t be changing her route again.

Bernie looks over her shoulder at the sound of Serena approaching, and Serena feels her cheeks flush at the attention and slows her pace, dropping her feet to the ground as Bernie jogs in place. “Missed you yesterday,” she says, and though her face is smiling, Serena thinks there might be a little more to it, that she might be worried about something else, tries not to read too much into it, knows she’ll be over-analyzing it well into the night.

“Ah,” Serena says eloquently, and doesn’t make eye contact with Bernie. “I’ve got to get to work. At the hospital. I’m a doctor. A surgeon.” She will tell herself she doesn’t know why she added all those qualifiers, but she also knows that she did it because she wants Bernie to be impressed with her.

“Don’t let me keep you,” Bernie says, her breath coming out in pants, still jogging in place, and she’s the one to watch Serena leave, and Serena doesn’t let herself look backwards, too embarrassed to give herself the satisfaction.

She has a long day, back to back surgeries and complications, and blood-spattered scrubs. She doesn’t feel like herself when she comes out of the operating room, wants nothing more than a shower, knows she doesn’t have time, that she has to get back out to the floor. There’s a cup of coffee sitting out on the nurse’s station, unclaimed. “Who’s is this?” Serena calls out, because she thinks if no one claims it, she’ll drink it, needs the caffeine, even this late in the day.

“Yours,” Fletch says as he walks by. “Someone named Bernie dropped it off for you.” The cup almost slips from Serena’s hand but she catches it, digging her nails into the cardboard sleeve, gripping it tightly. She sips it, long and deep. She thinks it’s the best cup of coffee she’s ever had.

\- - -

Serena has a day off, in the middle of the week, still wakes up with her alarm, doesn’t like to let her body get out of the habit. She decides she’s still going to go for a ride, will let herself meander, will let herself feel the enjoyment of it, instead of just the need to get from Point A to Point B. She doesn’t wear her helmet, wants to feel the wind in her hair.

She passes Bernie, then does a wide turn on the empty sidewalk, stops, waits for Bernie to catch up. “Good morning,” she says, determined to make a better showing than she has in the past. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Bernie shrugs, isn’t even jogging in place. Instead, her hand is fidgeting with the handle of Serena’s bicycle, her breath evening out, and she isn’t meeting Serena’s gaze.

“Can I return the favor?” Serena feels bold, feels freer without the weight of the pink helmet, thinks this is the first time Bernie’s seen the top of her head, wonders what Bernie thinks of her hair.

“What did you have in mind?” Bernie looks up at Serena, and Serena feels the way she did the very first time their eyes met, that jolt in the pit of her stomach, the feeling that the world has fallen out from under her. It’s ridiculous and silly and so very unlike her. To be fifty years old and to feel fireworks for the very first time.

“Coffee. Strong and hot.” She smiles, cheeks dimpling, creasing. And Bernie smiles back, her lips tipping up. “I’ve got the day off,” she adds, because she doesn’t know what else to say. She walks her bicycle, Bernie walking on the other side, their pace slow, steady.

“What do you plan to do with yourself?” Bernie asks, her shoulder bumping against Serena’s gently.

“I don’t know,” Serena answers, feeling suddenly giddy and she turns to face Bernie, still walking, “But I’m open to suggestions.” Bernie’s face splits into a smile at that, and Serena feels her heart beat a bit faster because it isn’t just her, _it isn’t just her_. Their shoulders bump again, and Serena feels Bernie’s fingers tangle with hers, just for the briefest of moments, and she feels the vaulting of her stomach again, a turbulence of feeling.

Bernie, it turns out, doesn’t have any plans either, but is content to sit in a coffee shop with Serena for an hour, long after they’ve finished sipping their drinks, just empty mugs sitting between them, a plate of crumbs the only remnant of the long-gone shared croissant.

“I don’t exercise,” Serena blurts out, because she thinks Bernie’s only ever seen her on a bicycle, thinks she might give off the impression of someone who would go out for morning jaunts just because - doesn’t think for a moment that that’s precisely what she’s done today. Bernie looks confused, and Serena can’t quite blame her because it wasn’t the smoothest of transitions.

“I mean to say, I like to drink wine late at night. I sleep in when I can. Raspberry ripple is my favorite food. You see me riding a bicycle but that’s only because my car broke down and I got in the habit. I’m not - I don’t exercise.” Bernie laughs at that, a loud noise that Serena likes instantly, warms to, finds infectious, can’t help laughing too.

“I used to be in the army,” Bernie says, the first time she's shared this piece of information. “Running every day is practically etched into every fiber of my being. I still expect a barking drill sergeant to order me out of bed every morning. But,” she adds, “I like sleeping in, too.” And her voice is low, so rich with promise that Serena finds herself able to do nothing but lean in, place her mouth on Bernie’s, the taste of coffee on her lips, the smallest crumb of croissant lodged right therein the corner, and her tongue darts out to catch it, pull it into her mouth. She moves back, and Bernie’s hand comes up to cover Serena’s.

“What are you doing for the rest of today?” Serena asks, her face flushed, eyes dark and dancing.

“I don’t know,” Bernie says, smiles wide, her face transforming. She kisses Serena, her whole body arching towards her, gripping her hand between her fingers, and it all feels so intimate for a coffee shop at ten o'clock in the morning. Bernie pulls away just enough for her breath to ghost against Serena’s cheek, warm and wet. “But I’m open to suggestions.”


	28. as the world keeps spinning round, you hold me right here right now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's a mash-up!  
> from _loopsy84: Bernie moves in. Tries to give up smoking, tries to be tidier, tries to cook. Serena learns to be patient_ and _[Regency](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regency/profile): their first anniversary (can be from dating, kissing, marriage, whatever works)._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everyone is gonna get sick of me!!!!!!!! i hope you enjoy this, domesticity for life!

Bernie moves into Serena’s house with little fanfare and even fewer belongings. She has a large suitcase of clothes, a box of books, a bag of knick-knacks. Serena had known Bernie was light on possessions, but seeing it all grouped in a small pile in the front room makes her heart clench a little bit. 

“Too much?” Bernie asks, with a wan smile, and Serena just pats at Bernie’s arm absently. She knows Bernie’s never been one to settle down, knows that she’s moved from place to place all her life. Serena worries, sometimes, that this is merely just a stopover before Bernie moves on to wherever it is she’ll go next, that  _ she _ is just a stopover until Bernie finds something new, different, better. 

“I think I’ve the room,” is all Serena says, and leans down to pick up the box of books, grunts slightly at the weight. Bernie follows, the suitcase in one hand, the bag in the other. Serena’s pushed aside a whole section of her closet for Bernie’s clothes, empty hangers just waiting for Bernie’s coterie of button-ups. 

Bernie’s spent the night enough to know that the towels on the lower rack are hers to use as she pleases. Serena’s left her toothbrush in a cup by the sink, has made room in the medicine cabinet for whatever Bernie should need to put there. Bernie dumps a small pile of makeup on the counter and Serena looks at it ruefully - how little she uses, how pretty she looks. Bernie sees Serena’s glance, and bumps her playfully in the side, can guess what she’s thinking. “You’re very pretty, you know,” she says, her eyes bright, her small smile a cupid’s bow on her face. 

Serena’s cheeks redden. She likes compliments, likes flirting, but there’s something about Bernie’s rare and open, genuine remarks that catch her off-guard every time. “Yes, thank you,” she says, her voice a little higher than usual. 

Bernie gives Serena another little nudge and then shoos Serena out of the bathroom. “I can’t unpack with you watching,” she says with a gentle push, patting Serena’s rear end with no small amount of affection. Serena sniffs with pretend affontedness and makes her exit, lets Bernie do what she needs in peace.

She sits in the living room, feeling a little tense, a little on edge. She can hear Bernie moving about upstairs, muffled footsteps through the ceiling, the occasional sound of a drawer opening and closing. It’s silly, she knows, but her nerves are jangling. Bernie’s been in her house, been in her bedroom enough, that it’s not like she hasn’t poked through all the drawers, made herself comfortable in the space, left clothes behind, used Serena’s lipstick. But it’s always been with Serena in close proximity. It’s another adjustment, a feeling she’s forgotten, to share a space, to share a  _ private _ space.

Serena thinks Bernie’s stubbed her toe, from the sound of it, a thunking sort of noise followed by a faint, but clear, “Fuck,” and she laughs, the sound spilling out into the empty living room, shaking the tension from her shoulders, easing the stress from her heart. “All right?” she calls up and hears only silence, imagines a slightly petulant look on Bernie’s face at being caught out in her clumsiness.

“Fine,” Bernie yells back, and then Serena hears her coming down the stairs. “Your bedframe has it out for me, I think,” she says when they’re in the same room, when she’s perched on the arm of the couch, her thigh just brushing Serena’s arm.

“Do you think you’ll make it through the night?” Serena’s mouth, her tone, are sympathetic, a careful pat to Bernie’s leg, but her eyes are dancing, shining. Bernie shakes her head ruefully, cranes her neck down to kiss Serena. 

“Only if a very good doctor can see to my wounded appendage,” she says, kissing Serena again, her lips dry, chapped, but Serena enjoys it all the same. This is what she loves best, she thinks, when they can be easy, relaxed, when Bernie matches her word for word, wit for wit, when Serena can smile against Bernie’s mouth, and feel her expression mirrored on Bernie’s face, the movement of Bernie’s cheeks, the feel of their teeth meeting in wonderful and strange awkwardness. 

“Let’s see the damage, Major,” Serena says, sliding down the couch to give Bernie room to join her on the cushions. Bernie complies, rests her feet in Serena’s lap easily. Serena’s hands go immediately to the instep, her thumbs working circles into the skin there. She can’t even see which toe suffered the brunt of the bedframe, knows it doesn’t matter anyway. Bernie’s arm drifts along the back of the couch, her fingers resting against Serena’s scalp, her nails carding through Serena’s hair. 

The silence in the house is palpable, but not oppressive. Serena lets out a slight hum of pleasure after a bit, at the feeling of Bernie’s hand in her hair, the methodical motions at once soothing and exciting. When it was still new, still early, Serena wondered if it would always be electric between them, if Bernie’s touch would always elicit such a response from her. Now, she knows that she will always react to Bernie, she will always feel her heart go lop-sided, then right itself. 

“Jason’s not back till Thursday,” Serena says after a bit, her smile crooked and sly. Bernie tilts her head, lets her hand slip down to Serena’s cheek, rests against her skin, warm and smooth. Serena likes to say those words, those exact words, no matter when Jason is due back. It’s shorthand, a way to tell Bernie she’d like to be taken to bed, without having to be explicit. It’s what the words meant the first time, it’s what they’ve meant every time since. “Think you can hobble upstairs?” 

Bernie huffs out a laugh, her thumb gently touching Serena’s lips. Serena darts her tongue out, touches the pad of Bernie’s finger as it moves past, smiles as Bernie pauses in her movement. These quiet, delicate moments, when they’ve woven together intimacy and love into a crystalline web around them, these are the things that make Serena quite sure she’ll survive living with Bernie Wolfe, the things that will make any growing pains worth their while.

-

Serena comes home, lines her shoes up against the wall, drops her purse on the table, takes her briefcase with her into the dining room. She stops, suddenly, at the smell of smoke tickling her nose. It’s faint, mixed with a fruity perfume and then Serena remembers that Bernie lives here too, that Bernie smokes, that she lives here and she smokes. She sighs, wonders what Jason will have to say about the smell, then sees that he’s sitting outside with Bernie, careful to avoid her exhalations. 

She walks out to the back patio, leans in the doorframe, watches her two favorite people talk, Bernie moving her hands a bit, showing Jason how big something is, the lit cigarette dangling from her first two fingers, the ash glowing in the fading summer day. Just as she’s about to lose some detritus to a summer breeze, Bernie taps the end of the cigarette over an empty wine bottle, her own personal ashtray. As her fingers engage in the practiced gesture, Bernie catches sight of Serena, a smile warming her face. Serena forces a smile back, doesn’t want to be the chastising old shrew, bent on ruining Bernie’s fun. 

“Hello, you,” she says, joining her family outside, running a hand along Bernie’s shoulders, tousling her hair. 

“Hi, Auntie Serena. Bernie was just explaining about some of the unsanctioned medical procedures she had to perform in the desert. It doesn’t sound very safe, or sanitary, but I suppose she’s been trained to handle those sorts of things.” He smiles at his aunt, wide and beaming, never showing his happiness by halves. 

“It probably wasn’t safe  _ or  _ sanitary, you’re exactly right,” Serena agrees, gives Jason a squeeze to his shoulder as well. “That’s the nature of wartime and trauma medicine, I imagine.” 

Jason nods, assimilating the information into what he already knows about those two fields. “I think I’d still prefer the sterility of Holby City Hospital.” Serena smiles down at him, nods. 

“I think so too. No offense meant to our brave army medic.” She ruffles Bernie’s hair again, notices some grey tinging the dark roots, fading into the blonde. She kisses Bernie’s scalp, right along the part, breathes in the smell of her floral shampoo on Bernie’s hair, can almost pretend she can’t smell the cigarette too.

Jason, never interested in watching his aunt and friend engaging in any sort of hanky-panky, stands up, pushes his chair back against the stone of the patio with a shuddering sort of screech, says he’s going to watch the latest episode of Top Gear in his room. 

Serena watches him go, her face soft, her eyes happy. She loves him so much, so deeply, a welcome surprise at this stage in her life. She looks down at Bernie, another welcome surprise, and then her gaze hardens as she catches sight of the cigarette, smoke still furling from the end, dissipating into the air. 

Bernie notices the change of expression, sees Serena staring at the offending item, drops it into the wine bottle with the collection of ashes, a small bit of water in the bottom to make sure it’s extinguished.

“You want me to quit,” she says, looks down at her hands, sees a bit of dirt from where she was holding the cigarette, rubs it away against her trousers. 

“I’ll admit the idea holds some appeal,” Serena says carefully. She doesn’t want to dictate Bernie’s life, doesn’t want to tell her what to do. She’s hardly a puritan, she smoked enough during university, a way to combat stress and exhaustion, but she thinks of it as a time period in her life that has come to an end. “I’d be kissing you right now if you didn’t have that stink on your breath.” She knows how she sounds, but she’s tired, she’s had a long day, and she doesn’t quite want to taste ash when she slides her tongue into Bernie’s mouth. 

Bernie isn’t making eye contact, looks a bit like a petulant child, making Serena feel all the more like a scolding mother. “It’s your life,” she says when it becomes clear that Bernie isn’t going to say anything. Her hand is still on Bernie’s shoulder and she moves it away, drops it to her side, isn’t sure how to walk away from this.

“It’s ours,” Bernie says, so quiet Serena almost doesn’t hear her. 

“What’s that?”

“It’s our life.” Bernie sounds sullen, but her words curl around Serena’s heart, like a wisp of smoke unfurling into the air. “You want me to quit.” The words said again into the quiet evening and Serena knows Bernie wants a straight answer. So she sits in Jason’s vacated chair, moves it in close so her knees are brushing Bernie’s, her bare feet just touching Bernie’s stockinged ones. 

“I don’t want you to die of lung cancer,” she says, her voice a little shaky, and Bernie’s hand goes to Serena’s, an automatic gesture. They’re always there for each other, even in the hard moments like this. “Ten years from now, I don’t want to be woken up by you hacking up into the night, unable to catch your breath, unable to stop.” She feels tears gathering at the corners of her eyes, feels a lump in her throat. She coughs a little, tries to clear it, looks at Bernie, eyes glittering, and Bernie finally looks back at her. “But I want you to be happy. I don’t want to make you do anything. You’re a grown woman, and I love you very much, and if you want to keep smoking, you are perfectly within your rights to do so. But you’ll need to brush your teeth before coming to bed.” She pats Bernie’s hand and stands.

“I’m going to make dinner. Come in when you want.” She clears her throat again and leaves Bernie sitting outside, the sun almost set, the light pouring from the windows of the kitchen illuminating the back yard. She looks back over her shoulder once, sees Bernie sitting there, looking down at her hands, and doesn’t quite know how to feel, doesn’t know if she’s solved anything, if this will just sit between them, a thing they won’t touch.

She flicks on the light meant to illuminate the back patio, a peace offering, and Bernie looks up, smiles at Serena, a small one, and Serena feels her heart ease a little. She sets about pulling things from the refrigerator, laying them on the counter, doesn’t halt her movements when she hears Bernie come in. Bernie walks straight through the kitchen, goes upstairs, and Serena can hear the water turn on in their bathroom and grins. 

Bernie comes down, smelling minty and fresh, the corners of her mouth wet from brushing her teeth, and she halts Serena in her progress of setting the table, takes the three plates from her hands and sets them on the counter. Bernie’s hands frame Serena’s face, her thumbs rubbing gently against Serena’s cheeks, and then she kisses Serena, kisses her deeply and long, her lips parting and Serena can taste the toothpaste. She lets Bernie back her against the countertop, her arms going around Bernie’s neck, keeping her close. When they part, Serena’s gasping for breath a bit, her cheeks rosy.

“I’m not promising anything,” Bernie says carefully, looking right into Serena’s eyes, her gaze dark and serious, her hands going to Serena’s hips. “But I’ll try.”

It’s enough, Serena thinks, enough to try. She pulls Bernie back in, a kiss pressed to the corner of her mouth, to her cheek, her neck. She noses into Bernie’s hair, kisses right where the hairs are short and fine, giving way to skin. Then Jason coughs meaningfully from the living room, says there are less than fifteen minutes until dinner is set to be served and he hopes nothing is going on to derail them from that schedule.

-

“You know,” Serena says, rolling on her side, looking up at Bernie, who is sitting, reading an old issue of the BMJ by the low light of the lamp on her bedside table, the light making her hair look like a halo. Bernie looks up, over the rim of her glasses (Serena’s glasses, really - Bernie just borrows them at bedtime), waits for Serena to finish her thought. “We met for the first time today.”

“Really?” Bernie asks. “Seems like we met a bit longer ago than that.” She’s got the look on her face that she gets when she’s making a joke, a hint of glee around her features, chased with a hint of smugness at her own cleverness. Serena wouldn’t enjoy that look on anyone else’s face, but on Bernie, it holds a certain appeal. 

Serena rolls her eyes. “Two years ago. Elinor’s play, my car. The parking lot of Holby.” She can remember the day clearly, a moment crystallized in her mind forever. Lovely weather, if a bit nippy, Bernie’s firm handshake, the way they flirted. “The neatest your hair’s ever looked, too.”

“First day, wanted to make a good impression. Sorry to set up false expectations.” Bernie runs a hand through her tousled locks, doing little to make them sit straight. Serena pushes herself up, leans into Bernie. 

“I _ like _ your hair,” she says, her lips so close to Bernie’s, her breath tickling Bernie’s skin. Bernie’s eyelashes lower as she looks down towards Serena’s mouth. 

“Liked it so much you talked to Jason about it. Nonstop from the way he tells it,” Bernie says in a low voice, her mouth ghosting against Serena’s, and Serena chuckles slightly against her skin, her breath tickling her cheeks. Serena’s lips touch Bernie’s, lightly, gently. “That was a good day,” Bernie says when Serena moves away, Serena’s nose nuzzling lightly against Bernie’s cheek.

“No it wasn’t,” Serena corrects and Bernie stiffens, pulls back a little, ready to be offended, but Serena is quick to assuage her, “but I believe our meeting was a brief bright spot.” She’s smiling when Bernie leans in to kiss her again, her teeth against Bernie’s lips, awkward and lovely at the same time. She remembers Bernie’s cigarette, her last one, her symbol of freedom, feels a little pang in her chest. Smoking is something they don’t discuss, not really. 

Bernie doesn’t smoke at the house, but Serena knows she escapes to the roof of the hospital sometimes, knows Bernie keeps a spare toothbrush and toothpaste in her desk drawer for those afternoons. She wonders if Bernie still sees smoking as freedom, as something that keeps her from being confined. It makes her all the more resolute to say nothing more about it. She’s brought back to the present when she realizes Bernie is asking something, her hand finding a home against Serena’s hip.

“-need to do something to celebrate?” Bernie asks, her brow creasing, the little wrinkles forming. Serena’s hand goes to Bernie’s cheek, caresses her gently, her fingers dancing up to smooth the lines away. “I’ve never been very good at that sort of thing.” Serena briefly thinks about going out for dinner, of Bernie buying her a bottle of her favorite wine, the kind that’s too expensive for everyday drinking. 

“I know,” Serena says, because she’s heard stories of Marcus’s extravagant anniversary presents and Bernie armed with nothing but her smile and the ability to distract him by taking off her clothes. She thinks that particular tactic would work against her as well, that a naked and willing Bernie Wolfe is possibly one of the more perfect presents she could receive. “It doesn’t matter much, to me.” And it’s true. Edward, with his huge bouquets of hideous flowers, with his empty gestures, cured Serena of any desire or need for gifts as a demarcation of time.

Without preamble, Bernie pulls off the old t-shirt she’s taken to wearing to bed, one of Serena’s from long enough ago that the print is fading, there’s a hole in the armpit. She reaches for Serena’s top as well, helps it over Serena’s head. 

“Might as well do something to make tonight special,” Bernie says, and it’s all so perfunctory that Serena laughs, even as she pulls Bernie in close. She thinks about saying something like “Every day is special with you,” but she’s not so saccharine, so naive. Instead, she just holds Bernie against her chest, warm skin to warm skin, breathes in the scent of her, clean, floral, real. Bernie nips at Serena’s earlobe, slides a hand between them to tweak Serena’s nipple, a gesture she knows always makes Serena smile. Her fingers go lower, passing along the smooth skin of Serena’s stomach, caressing the fleshy bits that sometimes cause her angst. Bernie’s hand stops at the line of Serena’s knickers, perhaps coming to the realization that Serena has been practically naked from the waist down this whole time.

Serena arches an eyebrow. “It  _ is _ our anniversary,” she says. “And I like to be prepared.” Bernie looks like she wants to say something, maybe is worried she’s too predictable, and Serena just rubs at her shoulder, at her back, fingers dancing across moles and freckles. “I believe you were in the middle of something, Major. It’s not good to leave a job half done.” She smirks, moves away from Bernie, leans back against the pillows, folds her arms behind her head, eyebrow still cocked in a challenge. 

Bernie looks at Serena for a long moment, like she’s trying to memorize this moment, this night, then moves quickly, like lightning, blows a raspberry right in the middle of Serena’s stomach, wet and noisy. It shocks a laugh out of Serena, full-throated, belly-shaking. Bernie rests her chin right on Serena’s hip, rides the waves of her glee, a half-smile on her face, her eyes dark and happy. “Oh, I do love you,” Serena says, her hand briefly tangling in Bernie’s hair. Bernie’s grin widens at the words, and she kisses Serena’s side, right above her knickers, scrapes her teeth, laves the area with her tongue. Her fingers help Serena’s pants down her legs, and Serena kicks them off, laying in front of Bernie, bare and open, happy and comfortable. And then Bernie’s hands and mouth set to work, and Serena arches up from the bed, fists her hands in the sheets and briefly finds herself thinking that this is one of the best anniversaries she’s ever celebrated, before Bernie removes her ability to think altogether.

-

The adjustment to living with Bernie Wolfe is fairly smooth - they’re apprised of one each other’s shortcomings - but it’s one thing to see it in practice at work, or in brief snippets when they spent the night together, and quite another to come home to it every evening and wake up to it every morning. Serena has become accustomed to straightening haphazard shoes by the front entrance, picking up half-empty coffee mugs on her way into the kitchen. She never has to quite go out of her way to keep things tidy, just adds on to the trips she’s already making, but it wears on her a bit.

It all comes to a head when Bernie leaves a breakfast bar wrapper on Serena’s desk, when her old, cold coffee gets spilled into Serena’s lap as she tries to maneuver a chart out from underneath. Serena, seething, makes her way to the locker room, sheds her trousers, kicks them into the corner and slams her way around, grabbing clean scrub bottoms, grabs a top too. She opens her locker with a bang, pulls out an old cardigan for days like this. 

She hears the door open and close behind her as she’s changing, only turns when she hears Bernie’s tentative voice ask if she’s all right.

“I’m  _ wonderful _ ,” Serena says, and hates herself a little for the tone of her voice. “Trying to clean up your mess, and just made a mess of myself and now I’ll have to take these trousers to the dry cleaner’s to get the stain out.” She holds up her crumpled clothing, gesturing to the dark, wet splotch, then throws it into her locker, shuts the door with more force than is needed, the padlock jangling. 

Bernie’s eyes are wide and she looks contrite, but Serena isn’t in the mood for it. “I’ve got to get back to charting. I’ll see you later,” she mutters, moving past Bernie, their shoulders brushing. She feels Bernie move away from the touch and closes her eyes, knows they’ll have it out later. Bernie is always better at staying professional, calm, not letting their little domestics get in the way of the work. Serena is still finding her footing there, too prepared to be let down by her partner, another one of Edward’s legacies.

What Serena doesn’t expect is to come home, still wearing her pale blue scrubs, to the smell of a curry on the stove, soft music playing from the radio, the sight of Bernie wearing an apron, swaying back and forth, a little off-rhythm. She catches sight of Serena, halts in her movement.

“I’m sorry.” It comes out in unison, a chorus of apologies, and Serena smiles ruefully, leans against the door jamb, folds her arms across her chest. 

“I’m messy,” Bernie says, speaking first, and Serena is surprised, had anticipated having to lead Bernie to the topic at hand. “You know that about me.”

“I do,” Serena agrees, tilts her head, contemplates what to say next. The silence stretches between them, and Serena is willing to let it, until she decides just what it is she wants to convey. “I don’t mind untidiness, as a rule. But you know that I like things neat, orderly.” Bernie nods, silent, waiting for Serena to continue. Serena thinks of her fights with Edward, where they would both blow up and yell and slam doors. Bernie isn’t that way - she’s serious, quiet, careful. For a woman who has spent so much time at war, she’s rarely anxious to do any fighting. 

“Sometimes, it feels like your messiness is -” Serena rubs at her neck, looks up towards the ceiling, as if the words will appear written in the stark white paint, “-inconsiderate. You know I like things tidy, but you don’t make an effort to tidy up after yourself.”

Bernie takes in Serena’s words, turns away only briefly to stir the sauce simmering behind her. Then she looks back at Serena, her eyes dark and inscrutable. She’s still silent, and Serena feels a bit like she’s balancing on the edge of a cliff, one wrong move and she’ll fall over. She’s desperately trying to stay standing. “I don’t mind it all the time, but it just - it builds. And then sometimes I spill coffee in my lap, and I can’t keep it in anymore. I do apologize for that bit.” She gives a half smile, her lips crooked. The distance between them in the kitchen feels wide and vast and insurmountable. She’s never fought like this, not really, armed with only her honest and careful words. 

“I get it,” Bernie says, finally, and Serena thinks she’s never been gladder to hear that low voice, feels her shoulders ease, drops her hand from where it’s been resting below her chin.

“I’m trying to be more patient,” Serena says, moving into the kitchen at last, joining Bernie next to the stove. “I just didn’t quite manage it today.” Bernie smiles at that, her lips parting, a hint of teeth peeking out. “But, in all honesty, I would like to be able to move pieces of paper around our office without being at risk of staining my clothing.”

“I think that’s reasonable,” Bernie says. “It’s never meant to hurt you, it’s just. It’s not something I  _ think _ about.” Serena lets her shoulder bump into Bernie’s. “I’ll try to think about it.” She looks around the kitchen, sees the measuring cups scattered on the counter, the spilled flour, the sink with dirty bowls. “I’ll think about it tonight, even.”

“You wash, I’ll dry?” Serena says, offering an olive branch, and Bernie smiles broadly at that, turns back to the sauce on the stove, giving it another stir. “It’s hard to change, at our age,” she says, her words coming out on a sigh, still feeling a little out of sorts. The benefit of a massive shouting match means that she is able to expend her anger somewhere, is able to get it out of her body, out of her mind. This quiet, reasonable discussion has left her feeling clogged, stymied. 

“You’ve done a lot of changing in recent years,” Bernie points out, and Serena laughs, has to agree, because standing here, with Bernie in a messy kitchen, is so far from anything she might have dreamt up for herself. 

“Can the sauce be heated up later?” Serena asks, and Bernie looks confused at the non sequitur, her eyes slightly squinted, as if she’s trying to size Serena up, figure out her motive. Serena pointedly leans across Bernie, flips the burner from ‘low’ to ‘off.’ “The best part of fighting, Ms. Wolfe, is what comes after you find a compromise.” Her voice is husky, sultry, and she’s talking right into Bernie’s ear, her nose just touching the helix. Bernie turns, just slightly so her lips are almost touching Serena’s. “Take me to bed, Bernie,” Serena says, her voice a command, because she thinks this is what she wants, knows it will make her feel better.

“Even with the kitchen all a mess?” Bernie asks, unable to resist a small dig, her mouth quirked, her eyes happy for the first time all day.

“Even with the kitchen all a mess,” Serena confirms, pulls Bernie away from the kitchen by her apron strings, pulls Bernie into an embrace at the foot of the stairs, her mouth meeting Bernie’s, hot and wet. Bernie pushes Serena against the wall, a leg slotted between Serena’s thighs, and one hand slides under Serena’s scrub top, her fingertips teasing at the silk of Serena’s bra, her breath damp against Serena’s neck. Her other hand delves below the drawstring of the scrubs, into Serena’s knickers, already damp, and Serena gasps into Bernie’s hair at the sensation of Bernie’s fingers moving quickly, efficiently, toying with her, bringing her right to the edge. 

They don’t do this often, almost never outside of the bedroom, and Serena revels in it, grinds her hips down, increasing the friction against Bernie’s fingers, pushing into Bernie’s thigh. She puts one foot on the lowest stair, changing the angle slightly, gasping as it makes Bernie’s hand hit at just the right spot. Bernie’s kneading Serena’s breast and placing open-mouthed kisses on Serena’s neck. She thinks she might need to find a scarf to wear around the hospital in the morning. Bernie crooks her fingers, just so, and Serena comes, her mouth muffled in Bernie’s hair, and she kisses the top of Bernie’s head as she calms, as her heartbeat slows. 

Then, carefully, pointedly, Serena unties the apron strings, pulls it over Bernie’s head, starts undoing the buttons of her shirt, pushes it off her shoulders, lets it lay on the floor as she brings Bernie up the stairs, to their bedroom. 

Bernie looks like she’s about to make a comment about leaving clothes lying around the house and Serena just kisses her to head it off at the pass, her tongue slipping easily into Bernie’s open mouth, swallowing whatever words she was about to say. They fumble their way up the stairs, knocking into walls, the doorknob to Jason’s room is going to leave a bruise on Serena’s hip. They fall into bed and Serena focuses solely on helping Bernie shed her clothes. She still feels jittery, frenetic, wants to rid herself of that energy. 

She’s single-minded as she kisses a trail down Bernie’s stomach, pausing at scars, moles, caressing with her tongue, nipping with her teeth. She licks into Bernie with no preamble, hears a strained, rough “Jesus,” fall from Bernie’s lips and smiles into the coarse hair at the apex of Bernie’s thighs. She thinks of the first time she did this, how nervous, how scared she was that she might do something wrong. How Bernie told her that she could count on one hand the number of times Marcus went down on her, that the mere fact that Serena  _ wanted _ to, that she was  _ excited  _ to, would make up for any inexperience. Serena holds onto Bernie’s hips, her fingers pressing into Bernie’s side, one sliding down to grip Bernie’s rear, holding her bucking body steady, firm. She nips, licks, bites, feels Bernie come around her mouth, feels her body slacken. She rests her head against the soft warmth of Bernie’s thigh, strokes at her stomach, gentle caresses as Bernie relaxes further.

“Better?” Bernie asks, when her breathing has slowed, a hand reaching down to touch Serena’s hair, to toy with the strands, damp from her exertion.

“Better,” Serena repeats. “Best.” 

 


	29. let the wind blow hard and wear the falling stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [squishmitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squishmitten/profile) said: _I would love to see a castaway type fic. My fantasy is stranded on a desert island, but I know that would be a difficult set up! Basically anything that sees our ladies stranded, having to survive for a while in the wilderness. You get the idea.._
> 
> this is a world where bernie and serena don't develop a friendship prior to bernie moving onto AAU! where does this fic take place? who knows! is this situation realistic? not really! i just watch a lot of survivor! hope you enjoy! who knows!
> 
> happy thanksgiving to all my american pals! eat some pecan pie for me!

Serena Campbell just wanted to get out of Holby City Hospital for a bit, to attend a conference far away, with no one she knew within a ten mile radius of her, to get away from the new trauma surgeon currently crowding in on her carefully maintained AAU. As if it wasn’t insulting enough when she was shunted down to the ward to clean it all up, now that she’s finally come into her own, made it really hers, she’s been assigned a babysitter, an infuriatingly competent ex-army medic with bravado, charisma and legs that go all the way down. 

She’d told Henrik Hanssen about this conference, cutting edge medicine, tropical location, emphasizing her need for distance, to be inspired by something other than Holby’s dreary landscape, and he’d decided that her new co-lead should attend with her. “So you can get to know each other better,” he’d said. She didn’t think she’d concealed her moue of disappointment all that well, especially judging from the slight quirk of Hanssen’s lips. 

So Serena Campbell finds herself on a airplane with Bernie Wolfe, seated close together in coach class, where she has to pay for her wine, a small, cheap bottle of red. “Welcome to the cash-strapped NHS,” she mutters as she sips, and Bernie just gives her an inscrutable look over the rim of her perfectly sensible glass of ice water.

Bernie is a mystery to Serena, a woman who is so buttoned up that Serena only learnt she has children from peering at her phone while she sent a text message. She knows only snippets of her past in Afghanistan, blown away from her military life by an IED, stitched back together at Holby, shuffled from department to department until Hanssen dropped Bernie onto AAU, no doubt thinking he was doing Serena a favor. 

Serena knows she’s far from perfect, that she’s made mistakes, but doesn’t think that warrants the need for someone to come in and share her office space, crowd into her life, leaving behind empty coffee cups and crumpled crisp wrappers. Bernie’s abrasive style, treating every case like a trauma emergency in the desert, her lack of adherence to hospital protocol in favor of going with her instinct and using whatever is at hand, chafes at Serena, rubs at her. But they are relative equals, and Serena knows enough not to dress down a colleague in front of the staff. 

Those conversations are saved for the times when the office is door is closed, when she hisses reprimands at Bernie, bitterness flavoring her words. And Bernie holds up her hands in submission, can’t get more than a few words out before Serena leaves her behind, never quite interested in what she has to say. 

They don’t speak much, just pass charts back and forth, communicate in terse sentences. Part of Serena’s heart aches at this - she’s so longed for someone at work to have as a friend, real and proper, someone to get drinks with, someone to share the load with. Instead she’s gotten Bernie Wolfe, a superstar surgeon, beautiful, brilliant and unable to compromise.

The conference goes by quickly, and Serena avoids Bernie for much of it, going to alternate sessions. “Divide and conquer, Ms. Wolfe. Perhaps a strategic tactic you’re familiar with.” She learns a lot, fills up a notepad with scribbling, things to look up, procedures to implement, people to contact. 

The last day of the conference is just a closing session in the morning, so Serena books passage on a day cruise, visiting remote islands, wandering beaches and enjoying the local flavor. It’s nice, for a moment, standing on the prow of the boat, sea spray hitting her sunglasses, the glinting of sunlight off the ocean water. But then, out of nowhere, Bernie Wolfe sidles up next to her, a joking chat up line on her lips. “Fancy seeing you here.” Her husky voice, her bright hair, smiling eyes, they all set Serena off-kilter and she finds herself smiling back for the briefest of moments.

And then she shutters her face, turns back to the water. “I didn’t know you’d signed up for this too.” Her voice is cold, terse, clipped.

She can practically feel the hurt radiating from Bernie, but it’s too late for apologies now. THe boat docks at an island then, and she makes her escape from the hurt look in her co-worker’s eyes. 

The island large enough that Serena can get lost for a bit, can’t even see the ocean as she wanders into the palm forest, batting at branches and low-hanging vines. There’s a hum of insects around her and she can hear the noise of animals moving through the trees, but the tour guide had assured them there was nothing dangerous on these islands.

She only pauses when she hears footsteps, turns to see Bernie Wolfe following behind her. And Bernie holds her hands up in that now-familiar gesture of surrender. “Just wanted to make sure you were okay,” she says.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” Serena answers, trips over a log and finds herself falling on her ass, scrabbling at the tree trunk next to her to try to regain her footing.

“It certainly seems like it,” Bernie says, tone wry, jogging slightly to Serena’s prone position, holding out a hand to help her up. Serena ignores it, pulls herself up on her own, can’t handle the smirk on Bernie’s face.

“I was taking care of myself for years before you came along. I was managing perfectly.” Serena rubs at her trousers, slightly muddied, sees that her palms are lightly scraped from the ground. She picks a piece of hardened dirt from the base of her thumb, flicks it to the ground. 

“Hanssen didn’t seem to think so.” The barb lands, hitting Serena like an axe between the shoulders and Serena almost physically responds to the remark. She looks at Bernie, fire in her eyes, and just sees Bernie’s cool, calculating gaze looking back. 

“That doesn’t mean I need your presence in every corner of my life. It doesn’t mean I need a ruddy _baby-sitter_.” She spits out the word. “You’d think someone with your credentials would want to do more with her life than sit around a silly medical ward, making sure her co-lead doesn’t make another mistake!” She knows Bernie doesn’t have much of a choice in her current life situation, knows she was discharged from the army, unable to return to service. 

“Someone with my credentials _could_ do a lot more than making sure her over-protective, territorial, jealous co-lead doesn’t trip over her own feet trying to avoid a helping hand!” Bernie’s voice is raised slightly and Serena stares at her face, takes a deep breath, opens her mouth to say something else, and then they both freeze at the sound of the boat’s horn, signalling its departure. 

“We’ve missed the boat?” Serena’s voice is faint. The horn sounds again, slightly more distant. She and Bernie stare at each other again for a long moment, then take off running, Serena lagging behind, catching her trousers on branches, almost tripping again, always keeping that mop of blonde hair in sight.

When they get back to the beach, the boat is just a distant speck. Serena tries to remember if there was a passenger manifest, if there was any sort of checking off of people at the other islands, wonders how it could have gone this far. “We wouldn’t have missed the boat if you hadn’t insisted on following me, on _picking_ at me.” It’s an unfair accusation, and Serena just sees those brown eyes fill with hurt and indignation. “Look at all the help you’re giving me now, Major Wolfe. Really can’t imagine what I’d do without you.” With that, Serena stomps down the beach, sits just above where the waves are lapping, and doesn’t look back.

\- - -

Sand. Water. Sky. Sand. Water. Sky. Serena keeps taking inventory as if something will change if she gives it another try. She can’t see the boat they came in on, can’t see any other boats either, for that matter. All she can see is sand, water and sky. And Bernie Wolfe. There’s something to be said for irony.

Bernie is puttering about with logs and palm leaves and Serena is doing nothing but watching, knees bent, arms holding them close to her chest. There’s a breeze off the water, salt in the air, and Serena’s hair ruffles slightly. If she closes her eyes, she can imagine this is relaxing, that this is planned, not some horrible mistake.

“How long do you think we’ll be here?” she asks, and Bernie doesn’t look up. Whether her voice didn’t carry, or Bernie is ignoring her, Serena isn’t sure, doesn’t bother repeating herself. It’s the last day of the vacation season, the last day of regular boat cruises out to the surrounding islands. It might be a day or two before another boat comes along, she thinks, if she’s trying to be reasonable, hopeful. And Hanssen will notice when his two co-leads don’t come back from the conference on their scheduled flights. They won’t be here forever. 

Serena spends a few more moments watching Bernie collect sticks, whittling off bits of them to make tinder, pushing it all into a little pile. Of course Bernie has some sort of knife on her person. Serena thinks about asking after it, thinks she’d just get a smug response about army life and always being prepared for any eventuality. 

She pushes herself off the ground, rubs the sand from her palms and walks over to Bernie, stands at her shoulder, feels like she might be standing too close, especially when Bernie looks up, her hair whipping Serena’s cheek gently, and Serena can see how close their faces are. She backs up slightly, and tries to school her features into a neutral expression.

“How can I help?” she asks, because she’s stuck here too, because she doesn’t want Bernie to shoulder all the responsibility for survival, because she wants to show Bernie how to be a team, how _they_ can be a team. 

“Ever built a fire?” Bernie asks, and Serena just raises her eyebrow in response. 

\- - -

They do manage to get a fire going, Serena holding tinder as Bernie rubs sticks together. It’s not a blaze, not a bonfire, but it’s respectable and the look on Bernie’s face, the pride as the flames cast flickering shadows on her cheeks, stirs something in Serena’s chest. And then she remembers how much she dislikes the other woman. 

“How long do you think we’ll be out here?” Serena asks again, as they sit together next to the fire, unwilling to leave it alone. Bernie tilts her head, squints her eyes slightly, and Serena can feel her shoulders shrug.

“Not too long. But I think I’m going to look for food. Stay with the fire.” Serena thinks she knows what the cavewomen must have felt like when their mates went off foraging for food. She stares into the fire, frustrated by the fact that she is, once again, dependent on Bernie Wolfe. 

Bernie is gone for a while, long enough that Serena starts to fidget with worry, starts imagining panthers or lions lurking in the island forest, or a wild boar goring Bernie Wolfe. She casts her eyes around, wonders if she would have the capability to dress a wound in the wilderness. 

A crash in the trees draws her attention over her shoulder, and Bernie appears, holding coconuts, her shirt ripped, mud on her face. She looks like some sort of female Crocodile Hunter and Serena’s hand goes to her neck, feels her heart beating hard at the sight of it. She stands, holds out her arms to take some of the coconuts. They make a pile near the fire, and Serena looks at the brown husks critically. “Can you open them?”

Bernie shrugs. “I can try.” Serena glances at her face, sees a twig caught in her hair, reaches up to pull it out before she can stop herself, can’t help but notice how soft Bernie’s hair is, how light. She looks away, down, wishes she could use her phone to look up how to open a coconut on a desert island, stops herself from checking for the fiftieth time if she has cell reception.

The silence stretches between them, Serena unable to apologize for their earlier fight, to offer any sort of olive branch. Then Bernie coughs and moves away, sits by the fire again, apart from Serena, waves her hand in the air to keep smoke from her face. 

If Serena is honest with herself, she knows that she could like Bernie, that they could work well together. She knows she hasn’t given Bernie much of an opportunity to develop a friendship, to build a foundation of trust. She knows she’s been blinded by her anger at Hanssen, her frustration with the situation. She’s spent too much time working her way to where she is, without help, without friends, to be able to change her personality on a whim. 

The popping of the fire is the only sound, the waves lapping at the sand. Serena closes her eyes again, tries to pretend this is just another vacation.

\- - -

It’s only when Serena’s stomach starts to growl that Bernie makes any move to open a coconut. She pulls out her utility knife again, starts scraping away at the husk, eventually gets to a point where the coconut milk starts to seep out. She hands it to Serena, and it’s only when the cool liquid touches her lips that she realizes how parched she was. She tries not to drink it quickly, to guzzle it down. She scrapes her teeth against the fleshy coconut, some semblance of food.

Bernie is doing the same, and when their eyes meet over the brown husks, Serena could swear Bernie gives her a smile. 

They collect palm fronds, big and heavy and bright green. Bernie suggests weaving them into some sort of mat, and Serena takes on the job gladly, thankful for something to do. She’s never been so glad of a chore. They lay it out near enough to the fire to get some heat, but far enough that they won’t have to worry about sparks hitting the leaves. 

The sun is starting to set and Serena shivers, only wearing a light blouse, almost sheer. Bernie automatically moves closer, and they sit by the fire, arms touching. 

“Is it safe to sleep on the sand?” Serena asks. “Do we have to worry about the tide?” She hasn’t been noticing whether it’s been going in or out, hasn’t noticed anything, really, too preoccupied with her own thoughts, with watching Bernie amass all the things necessary for survival. She reaches out to grab another stick, adds it to the fire. 

“We should be all right up here,” Bernie says, adding another stick to the flames. “Are you tired?” Serena shakes her head, wonders if Bernie can even see it in the dying light. 

“Thank you,” she says, softly. “For today.” She doesn’t know what she would’ve done if she’d been alone, doesn’t think she’d have been able to start a fire, doesn’t think she would’ve been able to get a coconut open. She feels Bernie stiffen beside her.

“It was nothing,” she says, her voice stern, a clipped military tone. “A soldier takes care of her unit.” 

It’s so cold, so perfunctory that the words hit Serena in her chest, the breath almost knocked from her, and she doesn’t know what to say to that. So she says nothing, just watches the fire, the sparks flying out and hitting the sand. 

“You are my unit,” Bernie says and Serena turns to look at her then, can see the firelight shine in Bernie’s dark eyes. “You are my team. Whether you like it or not, I was assigned to you, and I never back down from an assignment.” Then Bernie blinks, turns away. “I think we should try to sleep. Who knows what tomorrow will bring.” 

They lay on the woven palm fronds, barely any sort of cover from the ground, but it at least makes Serena feel like she’s on a bed, gives her some measure of comfort. She can feel Bernie next to her, can feel the warmth from her body, moves her own infinitesimally nearer.

“Might as well get close. I think it’s only going to get colder.” Bernie’s voice is soft, hesitant, as if she doesn’t want to offend Serena, doesn’t want her to perceive this as another unintended slight. Serena holds her breath, counts to three, then lets herself ease her body back into Bernie’s, wishing for a moment that she was a different person, that she was kinder. There’s nothing but the two of them on the sand, the starry sky above them, the sound of the crackling fire the only thing breaking the silence. Bernie’s arm comes around Serena’s waist, pulls her in snugly, her chin sharp in Serena’s shoulder, her breath against Serena’s ear. 

Serena wants to come up with some sort of sharp quip, something to help her regain some sense of equilibrium, but all she can think of is how nice it feels to be held by Bernie Wolfe, and how much she wishes she could think of something else. 

“I don’t hate you,” she says into the darkness, isn’t surprised when Bernie doesn’t say anything in response. But her arm hugs Serena slightly closer, warm and firm, and Serena supposes that’s enough, closes her eyes and tries to succumb to sleep.

\- - -

Serena is stiff when she wakes, her whole body sore, but she’s warm, Bernie’s hand in hers, one of Bernie’s feet between her calves. She hears the slow breaths that indicate Bernie is still asleep, cranes her neck to see if the fire is still going. It’s low, but she can still see the red embers. At her movement, Bernie stirs, grips Serena’s hand, one sharp squeeze, then seems to realize the situation in which she’s awoken. “Morning,” she says, and Serena sucks in her breath, the sound of Bernie’s low voice, made huskier with sleep, almost too much. 

She moves away from Bernie, sits up, though her limbs protest. “Did you sleep?” she asks, not willing to look at Bernie yet. She rubs her eyes, runs a hand through her hair, never more grateful for it’s shorter length. 

“I did,” Bernie says. “Thanks for keeping me warm.” There’s a flirtatious edge to her tone, one Serena’s never heard before, one that makes her heart flutter. She shakes her head, as if to clear thoughts of Bernie Wolfe from it. 

“I once heard that a soldier takes care of her unit,” Serena says, and then dares to look at Bernie. Her hair is tangled, a fluffy halo, her eyes dark and warm, her mouth smiling, and it’s all a bit too much. “I’d murder for a bath right now.”

“There’s a whole ocean out there.” Bernie gestures to the expanse of water in front of them, and Serena has to admit it’s a beautiful view. She colors, though, at the idea of Bernie watching her bathe. 

“Not quite private,” she says, looking away from Bernie. “I’m going to build up the fire a bit more.” She stands, heads to the wooded forest, tries to dislodge Bernie Wolfe from her mind. 

Attraction to women is nothing new, attraction to a coworker, especially one she barely knows, is. She fiddles with the chain around her neck, grateful for at least one recognizable symbol of normalcy amidst the wreckage of her life in its current state. The most frustrating thing is that at the heart of it all, she knows she has to apologize to Bernie. 

When she’s collected enough branches and sticks, she walks back to the beach, finds she’s able to pick out the sound of the water among the other noises of the island, that she’s discovered some sense of direction. Bernie is sitting by the fire, hunched over her knees. She doesn’t even look up when Serena drops her loot on the sand. She touches Bernie’s shoulder gently, almost a caress. 

“All right?” she asks, gingerly sitting next to Bernie. 

“Mmm. Just sore. Threw my back out last week. Turns out a night on a sandy beach isn’t a recommended cure.” Her tone is light, but Serena can tell from her immobility that Bernie is in some real pain.

“Would you like to have a trained medical professional take a look?” Serena means it seriously, but it comes out coquettish, and she only hopes her face looks innocent when Bernie manages to lift her head to meet her eyes. Her slight nod is enough, and Serena moves behind Bernie, rubs her hands together to warm them before sliding them under Bernie’s shirt, notices her intake of breath as she touches Bernie’s skin, wonders if she should’ve asked permission first. But there’s no going back now, so she just rubs slightly against her spine, feeling each vertebra moving slowly, watching for slight spasms of movement to indicate when she’s found a sore spot.

Her fingers are firm and sure, but gently working out the tightness, easing the tension. She keeps massaging for far longer than she needs to, tells herself it’s to ensure Bernie’s comfort but knows there’s a bit of selfishness on her part, knows that she’s enjoying the feel of Bernie’s skin under her palms, dotted with moles and scars that her fingers can feel. 

“That’s good,” Bernie says, her voice strained. “Thank you.”

Serena slides her hands away, a lingering touch. She pulls Bernie’s shirt down, smooths out an invisible wrinkle. She clears her throat. “I’m. I’m sorry about yesterday,” she says, won’t look at Bernie, hates having to admit she’s wrong. She’ll always do it, in the end, but admitting she’s wrong is admitting a weakness, and that’s something she’s tried to train out of herself. “Perhaps...When this is over, we might find a new way of working together.” 

“I’d like that,” Bernie says almost immediately, her voice soft and gently and warm and it makes Serena’s heart ache, because maybe this is what Bernie was after all along, just as eager for an equal as Serena, but Serena couldn’t see it. “I was out of line a bit too,” she continues. 

They sit quietly, Serena just behind Bernie, unwilling to break this gentle truce. Minutes pass, and Serena just looks at the back of Bernie’s head, the tumble of blonde curls, the way the sunlight brings out the different hues. She stands, and before she can stop herself, reaches out to ruffle her hair. “I’m going to go in the water,” she says. “You can join me, if you’re up for it.” It comes out as a challenge, and Bernie, now able to look over her shoulder at Serena, raises an eyebrow in disbelief.

“I think I might have the edge over you in that department,” she says and Serena lets out an incredulous snort.

“There’s life in the old dog yet,” she says, bending low so her mouth is right next to Bernie’s ear. “Last one in is a rotten egg.” She has a head start, she’s already standing, and she pulls her shirt off over her head, unbuttons the fly to her trousers as she moves, sliding them down her legs, an ungainly strip. She can hear Bernie laughing behind her, hears the slide of the sand. In her knickers and bra, she wades into the water, cold against her calves. Bernie charges in after her, splashing Serena as she goes, dipping under the waves, coming up soaking wet, hair plastered to her scalp. 

Serena laughs too, the sound escaping from her unbidden, unexpectedly. It’s a release, from the tension of the previous day, the previous weeks, the previous months. To laugh and hear Bernie Wolfe laugh with her, it lightens Serena’s heart. 

She hasn’t been in the ocean for years, not since a vacation with Edward and Elinor years ago. She can taste the saltwater on her lips, blinks the water from her eyes. She dives under the water too, opens her eyes just enough that she can see Bernie’s legs in front of her, swims past and touches her ankle, light as minnow. When she surfaces, pushes her fringe back from her face, she sees Bernie looking at her curiously, calculatingly. 

There’s a split second where they’re just staring at each other, the water lapping at their bodies, and then Bernie lunges at her, pulls Serena under the water with her. Their chests press together under the waves and Serena just feels the warmth of Bernie all around her. When they surface, she’s gasping slightly for air, but chuckling at Bernie’s cheek, can’t remember the last time she felt so free, so at ease. 

They’re still close, so close, and Serena can see the freckles on Bernie’s cheeks, can see all the brown hues in her eyes. She can see how Bernie’s tongue darts out to wet her lips, finds herself imagining what saltwater tastes like in Bernie’s mouth. And then she wrenches herself from the moment. “I think I’m bathed as good as I’m going to be,” she says, and walks away, knows her hips are swinging slightly, as much as she can in the water.

She hears a low whistle and looks over her shoulder at Bernie, smiling slyly. “Putting on a show, Ms. Campbell?” Her eyebrow is raised and Serena feels her face burning, turns back towards the beach and walks as quickly, with as much dignity as she can muster, gathering her discarded clothes as she makes her way back to the fire. 

She watches Bernie in the water, practically a dolphin flapping around, dipping in and out, her blonde hair like a buoy, always showing Serena where Bernie is. Leaning back on her hands, Serena tilts her head towards the sun, the light bathing her face in warmth. She knows she’ll be burnt later, that her cheeks will be pink, her shoulders sore, but it’s worth it, for this moment of peace.

Serena dozes like that, only stirring when the sun is blotted out, Bernie standing above her, dripping onto the palm frond mat, her skin glistening with droplets. Serena holds her hand above her eyebrows, a makeshift visor and squints up at her colleague. “Feeling all right?” she asks, concern for Bernie’s back first in her mind.

“Never better. Except for the fact that we’re still stuck here.” She flops onto the mat next to Serena, her body still tanned from her time in the army. Her undergarments are thin, functional, black, a contrast to her skin. Serena looks at her own, burgundy bra, impractically lacy leopard print pants. She tries not to think that she might’ve dressed differently if she’d known Bernie would see her in them. 

There’s a comfort between them now, an ease, and Serena lays back next to Bernie, their shoulders touching, all the way to their elbows. 

“If you weren’t trapped on a beach with me right now, what would you be doing?” she asks, hand covering her eyes, her sunglasses forgotten on the other side of the fire.

“Lunch with Cam and Charlotte, maybe?” Serena can hear the rustle of the palm frond mat, tries to imagine how Bernie looks, wonders if they’re mirrors of each other. 

“Your children?” Serena knows this, from prying and being nosy, but not from any direct conversations with Bernie herself. 

“Mmm,” is Bernie’s answer, and Serena rolls over on her side, opens her eyes so she can actually see Bernie, doesn’t have to depend on a mental picture. She thinks she actually wants to get to know this woman. 

She can’t think what to ask next, sees Bernie roll onto her side too, so they’re facing each other. She lets her feet move, carefully, slowly, until her toes just touch Bernie’s ankles, dusty with sand, no trace of self-consciousness about her state of undress. 

“You have a daughter?” Bernie knows this from the picture on Serena’s desk, but Serena appreciates the effort.

“Elinor. Pain in my backside, but she has her charms.”

“Must run in the family,” Bernie says, a smirk on her face, and Serena reaches out to bat at Bernie’s shoulder, Bernie’s skin sun-warmed and soft. Bernie catches Serena’s hand in her own, pulls Serena close, her breath on Serena’s cheek. 

“Is this -” Serena has time to ask before Bernie’s lips are on hers, and Serena can taste the remnants of the salt in her mouth, answers her own question from before as she slides her tongue against Bernie’s. The kiss is short, brief, and when Bernie pulls away, she looks frightened, nervous, and while Serena isn’t sure this is the best idea, she’s sure it’s what she wants, so she hauls Bernie back in, holds her close, wraps an arm around her shoulders, and presses her lips to Bernie’s. 

It lasts longer this time, Serena detours to presses kisses to Bernie’s neck, her skin all saltwater and sweat, noses into her still-damp hair. She breathes in the scent of Bernie, asks in a soft voice, just above a whisper, “Is this a mistake?” 

She feels Bernie stiffen start to pull away, but she doesn’t let go. “What I mean is that just yesterday we were arguing, practically enemies. One night of sleeping together - not like that,” she inserts at Bernie’s scoff, “under the stars and playing in the ocean can’t fix the fact that we barely know each other.” 

Bernie cocks her head, gives Serena an appraising look. “Undeniable sexual chemistry aside,” she says, a sly smile on her face, and Serena feels a spark in her chest, the igniting of touchpaper, “You might be right.”

Serena moves away with only a tinge of regret, adds some sticks to the fire, pokes at the embers slightly, sending sparks into the air as the logs shift. Bernie rolls over, grabs a coconut and her knife, starts slicing at the husk. She sips deeply, passes it to Serena as she sits back down on the mat, and she puts her mouth where Bernie’s was just moments before, lets the milk slide down her throat, can feel Bernie’s gaze on her. 

She wipes at her mouth. “Where were you born?” she asks. “Do you have any siblings? Why did you join the army?”

“An interrogation isn’t the way to get to know someone,” Bernie says. “But London, a brother, and because I wanted to.” Her answers are exactly what Serena might expect, short, to the point, getting the job done, no floweriness, no extraneous information. 

Serena passes the coconut back, watches the undulation of Bernie’s throat as she swallows, sees the pinking of Bernie’s cheeks under her tan. “Same questions to you,” Bernie says when she’s finished. 

“London - Lambeth. No siblings, and I didn’t join the army.” Bernie rolls her eyes and Serena laughs. “It’s not my fault you’re terrible at asking questions.” She takes the proffered coconut once more, sips again. 

“Do you like Holby?” She’s ready to bypass smalltalk, ready to push into Bernie’s brain, learn the things about her she couldn’t learn from a Facebook page.

Bernie tilts her head back, her hair, now starting to dry, falling back over her shoulders, hanging loose towards the ground. “I like that it’s close to my children. I think, maybe, I might start liking my job.” She squints, looking at Serena with one eye. “I think, maybe, I might start liking the person I share an office with.”

“I deserve that, I suppose. I’ve been a cow.” Bernie huffs out a chuckle, a forced braying sound that is endearing in its awkwardness. Serena can’t blame her, not one bit. She weighs an idea in her head, one she’s been thinking about since the first day of the conference, after a panel on revolutionary trauma procedures, how to adapt them for budget-conscious hospitals. “What if we add a trauma bay to AAU?” she asks, and both of Bernie’s eyes are open, wide, staring at Serena. “Just a thought,” she says, when Bernie doesn’t say anything for several moments.

“Why would you do that?” Bernie’s voice is incredulous, and she reaches out to Serena, grasps her hand. “It’s too much for an apology.”

“I wouldn’t build you a whole unit as an apology. Just me saying the words is more than most people get, I’ll have you know. You saw how miserably we handled that crisis last month. It’s been eating at me, and that session by Drs. Patel and Johnson made me think it might be something we could implement at Holby.” Serena squeezes Bernie’s hand. “But I wouldn’t mind helping to create a more hospitable work environment for you.”

She doesn’t resist when Bernie pulls her in for a kiss, doesn’t resist as Bernie’s tongue slips into her mouth easily, doesn’t resist as Bernie palms her breast through the damp fabric of her bra, her nipple pebbling from the cold as much as from arousal. “We still don’t know each other,” Bernie says, between kisses against Serena’s skin, her cheeks, her jaw, her chin.

“Screw it,” Serena says, tilting her neck to give Bernie more access, shuddering when Bernie nibbles at her pulse point. “What are we going to do, play twenty questions?” Bernie laughs into Serena’s neck, her whole body shaking with the noise, and Serena wraps her arms around Bernie’s back, enjoys the vibrations of their bodies together. 

“Have you had sex on the beach before?” Bernie asks, licking a trail between Serena’s breasts, and it’s Serena’s turn to laugh, full and throaty.

“The cocktail only.” Bernie’s moving over Serena, a leg on either side of Serena’s hips, her hands pressed into the mat, framing Serena’s head. She’s haloed by the sun, her hair drying into a fluffy, unkempt cloud. She leans down to kiss Serena, her lips lingering, dry and salty, and Serena lifts her hands up to tangle into Bernie’s hair, holds her close as she whispers against Bernie’s mouth: “Let’s do it Kandahar-style.”

That seems to break something in Bernie, and she seems determined to kiss the breath from Serena’s lungs, to leave her speechless, boneless on the sand. Her fingers slide under the elastic of Serena’s knickers, and Serena is already so wet, her hips arching into the touch, helping Bernie’s fingers to find just where she wants them most. She’s aggressive in her approach, sure and strong, and Serena is panting in seconds, the friction driving her to distraction, enough that she’s not even worried about sand or contamination, or anything but Bernie’s hand inside of her, Bernie’s name spilling from her lips in a groan. 

Serena’s hands run up and down Bernie’s back, retracing her steps from before, feeling the familiar bumps and divots in her skin, her nails finding purchase in her shoulders as Bernie continues her welcome assault, her mouth hot against Serena’s, her hand frenetic inside of her. When Serena comes, Bernie swallows the sound, relaxes against her body, their chests pressed together, their hips, their thighs. It’s like having a blanket that covers just her body, Serena thinks, her hands lightly dancing up and down Bernie’s back, nails now tickling softly, lightly, and she tries to regain her breath, her consciousness. 

The fire is low again when they finally move, when Bernie rolls to the side. It’s still just early afternoon, and Serena thinks there’s a chance that they might get rescued today, so grabs for her shirt, her trousers, pulls them on, paying no attention to the sand, her thighs sticky with sweat and want. Bernie cocks an eyebrow. 

“What if a boat comes along? I don’t want to be caught with my pants quite literally down.” She slips her shirt over her head, the fabric settling uncomfortably against her skin. 

Bernie follows suit, her shirt still torn, her trousers still dirty, and she’s never looked more beautiful to Serena’s eyes. She caresses Bernie’s cheek, pulls her face close and kisses her lightly, a promise, nuzzles her nose against Bernie’s. She feels soft and gentle, like she emerged from the water a new person, an Aphrodite reborn from the seafoam. 

“What if a boat never comes?” Bernie asks and Serena smiles, their faces still close, her cheeks dimpling, her eyelashes just brushing against Bernie. 

“Then at least I have you to provide for me,” she says, and Bernie laughs against her lips. She kisses Bernie again, slides her hand into Bernie’s hair, kisses her like she never wants to stop, because she never does. “And we’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other.” 


	30. laconica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _anon asked for: They go to a hotel for 1 night for a mini get-away. And maybe they pretend they're there to pick up a stranger? Or not... Or they have a big night out planned, but ditch it to stay home & cuddle & watch a movie & then go to bed & make love_
> 
>  
> 
> well, this turned into a five times fic and this is one of the times! such fun! i'm on thanksgiving break and can do what i want! which turns out to be writing fic in bed!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "laconica" (or laconicum) is basically a sauna-type room in the roman baths. i took latin for three years and dammit, people are gonna know.

**one.**

They’ve been in the tub for a while now, languorously soaking in the warm water. Serena’s eyes are closed as she relaxes in Bernie’s embrace, their bodies pressed together, not even water seeping through. It’s a tight fit, in Serena’s bathtub, but all the more excuse for them to stay close, Bernie’s legs open, wrapped close to Serena’s hips, a day’s worth of hair growth scraping slightly against Serena’s smooth skin, a welcome friction.

Bernie’s long fingers have been dancing up and down Serena’s stomach, making little eddies in the water, moving ever closer to her thighs but darting back towards her breasts, buoyed by the water, just as she nears the dark thatch of hair. It’s a constant, teasing rhythm and Serena’s doing her best to enjoy the sensations, to enjoy the stillness, to not break it with her keening whimpers for release. She leans her head back against Bernie’s shoulder, displaying a tableau of pale British skin, untouched by sun, a perfect view for this Saturday afternoon.

Bernie’s hands become more forceful as they rub up and down Serena’s belly, cupping her breasts, tweaking her nipples, pebbling as they feel the touch of the cool bathroom air. Serena squirms slightly, water splashing up the sides of the tub, knows she won’t maintain any semblance of dignity for much longer. And then Bernie’s hands go back to light touches, to the barest hint of caresses, flitting around Serena’s body.

Without warning or preamble, in a move as quick as lightning, Bernie’s finger dips inside of Serena, a purposeful, deep thrust, and just as quickly, her hands resume their teasing. Serena bucks slightly and Bernie whispers for her to be patient, nuzzles into her hair, fits two fingers inside of Serena this time, toying with her clit, but still not quite giving Serena the release that’s been building for some time. Serena grips Bernie’s hair, holds the golden strands in a fist, uses the leverage to bring Bernie’s face close so she can awkwardly press a kiss to her lips. She slides her tongue against Bernie’s mouth, until the strain of the position is too much for her neck and she drops the contact.

Bernie’s hand is still working Serena into a small frenzy, still an endless march of stuttering touches that just simply hold the promise of more. Serena lets go of Bernie’s hair, feels it fall against her cheek, and her hand goes underwater finally, _finally_ , and grasps Bernie’s hand, holds it just where she wants it most.

Their fingers move together in a rhythm, but Bernie resists all of Serena’s attempts to make herself come. Bernie nips at Serena’s neck, rests her chin right on Serena’s shoulder, a sharp point, licks the shell of her ear, bites at the earlobe, and then Serena’s hand drops away, she flails a little, splashing water over the side of the tub, because she can’t take the teasing above and below. She can feel Bernie’s smirk, pressed into her skin, can’t do anything but pant, beg for Bernie to go harder, faster. Bernie continues to circle her clit, her thumb a constant pressure, her fingers quirking, bending, pushing, It lasts minutes or it lasts hours, Serena can’t tell, but when she comes, it’s with a guttural moan, Bernie’s name only half intelligible as Serena sags against her body, sated, drooping with release.

The floor of the bathroom is wet, the bathmat half-soaked, but Serena finds she doesn’t care, just curls slightly, presses her face into Bernie’s neck, kisses her right below her chin and murmurs her thanks.

 

**two.**

The Viking is perhaps the poshest hotel in Holby, with a beautiful restaurant on the first floor, replete with a full bar. It’s at this bar that Serena Campbell is seated, perched on a high stool, nervously tapping her fingers.

“Is this seat taken?” A tall blonde woman seats herself next to Serena, not waiting to hear her answer. Serena coughs slightly, looks at the woman next to her, hair pulled back in an elegant sort of twist, a few escaped tendrils framing her face. Her dark eyes are warm, friendly, and there are pearl drop earrings hanging from her ears. She’s dressed in a well-cut suit, tapering black pants and pointy shoes.

“Looks like it is now,” Serena manages, reminds herself that she looks just as good, a wine-red dress that hits just at her knees, showing off her decolletage in all it’s glory, her pendant necklace hitting just so against the bare skin of her chest.

“What are you having?” She points at Serena’s almost empty wine glass, an imprint of her dark lipstick around the rim, and Serena has to stop herself from saying “Shiraz, of course,” because that’s not the game.

“Why don’t you surprise me with something new?” Serena says, eyebrow arched, draining the last of the wine from her glass, swallowing slowly, knowing the other woman is watching the undulation of her throat.

She speaks in low tones to the bartender, and Serena doesn’t try to overhear, her fingers back to tapping on the wood top of the bar, and she thinks of the roomkey in her purse. Her attention is brought back when a cocktail is placed in front of her, red in color, lime wedge on the rim. Serena takes a cautious sip, tastes a pinot noir mixed with something else, tequila maybe, enjoying the sharp citrus on her tongue.

“You enjoy a drink the way most people enjoy sex,” the woman says, her voice low and husky, her mouth bent to Serena’s ear, breath on her cheek, and Serena almost chokes on the cocktail, manages to salvage the moment, but thinks her face must be stained red.

“Awfully forward, when you haven’t even told me your name yet.” Serena takes another sip, lets the liquid roll around her mouth, savors the taste, knows she’s being watched, appreciated.

“Bernie Wolfe. Here on business, looking for a little pleasure.” The line is so trite, so hackneyed that Serena almost laughs, but instead she holds her hand out to shake, gives her name in return, enjoys the smooth slide of Bernie’s palm against her own.

“Mm, well. I’ve got a room just upstairs. Now that we aren’t strangers anymore.” Serena bumps her shoulder against Bernie’s as she drains the last of her cocktail, only ice and lime wedge left in the glass. She stands, the skirt of her dress swirling around her legs, the leopard print heels giving her extra height. Her fingers delicately trace the neckline of her dress and she watches Bernie’s eyes track the gesture. “2214. If you’re interested.”

She saunters away towards the elevator, her hips swinging, and she smiles as she hears the scrape of a barstool behind her, knows Bernie is following close behind. She catches up to Serena just before the elevator doors close, stands right behind her as they ride the car up. “How long are we going to do this?” she asks, her voice a whisper, and her hand reaches for Serena’s, hidden in the folds of her dress.

“Mm, I think we’re done.” Serena tangles her fingers with Bernie’s, presses a kiss to her cheek.

“You’re awfully quick to invite a strange woman up to your room,” Bernie says, arms wrapping around Serena’s shoulders, molding their bodies together. The elevator is slow, and Serena wonders if there’s any chance of it stopping at another floor.

“I was tired of foreplay. There’s a large tub in our room and I want to make use of it.” Bernie laughs at that, the vibrations thrumming at Serena’s back, her mouth in Serena’s hair.

“That wasn’t even foreplay. We didn’t get that far.” Serena pulls away from Bernie, looks at her critically, an eyebrow raised.

“Are you saying you’d rather go back down to the bar and pretend we’ve never met for another fifteen minutes? Or do you want to wait the three more floors till we get to our room and enjoy a nice soak with me now?”

“Second option, please,” Bernie says, false contrition in her voice, and Serena smirks, nestles back into Bernie’s embrace until the doors ding for their floor. She leads Bernie down the hallway by their joined hands, feels Bernie close at her back as she slides the key into the lock, almost fumbles it, but the light blinks green and the door swings open.

She steps inside the room, flicks on the hall light and makes her way to the bathroom, turns on the taps, makes sure the water is hot, almost scalding, pours scented oil in over the basin, then turns back to the bedroom as the tub fills. Bernie’s sitting on the bed, her suit jacket discarded next to her and she’s starting to undo the buttons to her shirt.

“Let me,” Serena says, stands between Bernie’s legs and pushes her hands away, starts sliding each button through its hole, carefully, methodically. Bernie sits, a willing supplicant to Serena’s whims. When her shirt is open, the taut skin of her stomach bare, Serena slides her hand up to cup Bernie’s cheek, lightly touching her earrings.

“These are new,” she says, letting the pearl dangle against her fingertips. Bernie’s face warms against Serena’s palm, the embarrassment she feels whenever she’s done something different for the first time, when Serena acknowledges it.

“They’re old, actually. My mother’s. I wanted - it seemed appropriate to look nice for you.” She leans into Serena’s touch and Serena’s whole face softens, knows Bernie doesn’t talk about her mother much, knows that it’s meaningful she’s wearing these earrings.

“You look very nice,” she says, a light pat to Bernie’s cheek, and then steps away, reaches behind her back to unhook the catch of the dress, to slide the zipper down, slowly revealing her body to Bernie, burgundy bra and matching lace pants underneath.

Bernie pulls Serena back towards her, rests her face against the soft flesh, kisses the sensitive skin, wet and hot. “The tub will overflow if we don’t get in there soon,” Serena says softly, grasping Bernie’s hands, leading her towards the bathroom.

She steps into the tub, sure there’s no way to enter a bath elegantly. Her skin pinks instantly in the warm water and she gingerly settles against the edge of the tub, watches as Bernie sheds the rest of her clothes, no trace of self-consciousness in her movements, suit a pile on the floor as she follows Serena into the water, sits at the opposite end of the tub, and Serena folds her legs up, crosses them, her knees bumping against the sides.

Going to a hotel was Jason’s idea, because, as he said, he knew that romance needs alone time to blossom. Serena’s sure he read that in a book somewhere, while researching how to be a proper boyfriend. Pretending to be strangers in a bar was an idea she’d had, something that sounded exciting and erotic, but all she really wants, ever, is to be with Bernie. She likes this, when they’re alone and quiet.

Carefully, sloshing water as she goes, Serena moves forward, a little ungainly, presses her front to Bernie’s, and kisses her, square on the mouth. Bernie’s hands immediately go into her hair, holding her face close, kisses her back. The position is awkward and strange and the tub doesn’t allow for much maneuvering, but Serena manages to settle herself on Bernie’s lap, pulls the pins from Bernie’s hair, the waves falling against her face. “I love you,” she says against Bernie’s lips, a happy hum in the back of her throat as Bernie kisses her again.

“That’s quite a statement from someone I met in the bar half an hour ago,” Bernie says, her voice soft and wry, her breath tickling at Serena’s eyelashes. She’s smiling her shy, secret smile, the one Serena thinks is just for her.

“Oh, hush,” she says with no bite to her words, just kisses the smirk from Bernie’s lips, holds her close, feels her heartbeat against her skin.

 

**three.**

Bernie injures her back trying to move two heavy boxes of books in one go, unwilling to wait for help, perverse in her need to do things on her own. “Lucky you live with someone now who can take care of you, in all your stubbornness,” Serena says, putting books in the empty spaces on the shelves in what is now their bedroom as Bernie lies prone on the bed, watching Serena with careful eyes, ice pack on her lower spine.

Serena books them massages at the Holby Day Spa, a treat for them both, a reward for successfully starting the adventure of cohabitation. It’s meant to be therapeutic, she says. Bernie is always happy to go along with Serena’s ideas, has found by now that it’s better to do as Serena says, rather than go five rounds about it and end up still doing as she suggested but with a hint of bitterness to the proceedings.

The massages are fine, a couple’s affair, with soft candles and quiet music. Far different than the physical therapy massages of Bernie’s past. She can hear Serena’s quiet moans of pleasure at the pressure, finds herself getting a little worked up at the noises coming from the bed next to hers.

It’s after the massages, when they’re wrapped in robes, headed to the changing rooms that Serena slyly suggests they visit the jacuzzi before they leave. “Think of the warm jets,” Serena practically purrs, and Bernie doesn’t have to turn around to picture the look of feigned innocence on Serena’s face. “For your back, of course,” Serena qualified, holding out Bernie’s swimsuit, packed in her purse, evidence of her plotting all along.

Bernie doesn’t argue as she pulls off her robe and pulls on the suit, watches Serena do the same, would almost swear Serena’s doing her best to make it some sort of erotic strip tease, a quirk to her lips, a smile in her eyes. There are two other people in the jacuzzi when they get there, shed their robes and climb down the stairs into the bubbling, frothing water. Serena nudges Bernie to sit right in front of one of the jet streams, the pressure building at her back, and then she nestles in, so close, next to Bernie, their shoulders touching, their thighs touching.

Serena beams at the two other people in the hot tub, introduces herself, introduces Bernie. She’s a maven of charm and Bernie feels weak with it, even as she feels Serena’s hand come up over her knee, rest there for a moment before making its way between Bernie’s thighs. She feels weightless in the warm water, grateful for the excuse for her reddening cheeks as Serena’s hand moves back and forth against Bernie’s suit, a quiet pressure in tandem with the jet at her back.

Bernie’s breath hitches slightly and Serena shoots her a look while still talking about their shared work on AAU, asking after the strangers’ professions. Bernie doesn’t even hear their answers, can’t focus on anything but the movement of Serena’s fingers, adjusts her body ever so slightly to allow the jet to flow down her back rather than across it, feels the bubbles shoot down her swimsuit, bites her lip.

Serena’s slipped two fingers beneath the elastic, made more malleable in the water and Bernie has to close her eyes for a moment, knows she can’t react, knows that the moment she makes a sound, Serena’s hand will disappear. So she just takes a breath and tries to think about the two people in the tub in front of her, tries to remember their names even as Serena’s fingers move inside her.

She moves her leg over Serena’s, giving her hand more room to work, her calf sliding against Serena’s knee, and Serena’s other hand holds her leg in place, only removing it to punctuate her words as she continues to talk about the life of a surgeon in calm, even tones. Bernie doesn’t know how she’s doing it, how her hand is moving with surety and speed, driving Bernie crazy even as her voice is measured. Bernie grips at Serena’s wrist under the water, knows she’s about to come from the heady combination of the surreptitiousness of it all and Serena’s nimble fingers, working at her, circling, thrusting, invisible above the surface of the water, hidden by the burbling jets.

Bernie feels like a jet herself, about to explode above the water, bubbling, boiling, unable to contain herself. Serena’s nail lightly scrapes against Bernie’s sensitive skin, not an accidental touch, and Bernie bites her lip hard enough that she’s worried about leaving a mark on her own skin. She manages a strained smile at the looks from the two other people in the jacuzzi, stutters out that it was just a spasm of back pain. Serena slants her eyes at Bernie, a knowing look on her face, and she thrusts hard with her fingers, once more, and Bernie sees stars, squeezes her eyes shut, has to turn her face into Serena’s neck, hiding her groan in Serena’s shoulder.

“Mmm, maybe this wasn’t the best idea for your back, darling,” Serena says, patting at Bernie’s leg. “Maybe we should get home and to bed.” She makes her excuses to the couple and walks through the water and up the steps, holding out a hand to help Bernie, slightly wobbly on her feet.

“I could kill you,” Bernie hisses, trying to keep up the pretense of a spasming back.

“Yes, but you won’t,” Serena says back, a wide smile on her lips.

 

**four.**

Death is a funny thing. It’s ever-present in the hospital, a specter at the edge of everything Serena does. She’s gotten used to it, as much as she ever will, but it doesn’t stop the ache in her heart when they lose a life, when she watches a family member mourn, when she holds the hand of a loved one.

Bernie knows, by now, when Serena’s having a hard time of it, when there’s nothing she can say or do to make things better. She just sets a pastry on Serena’s keyboard and takes over her charting for the afternoon, quiet gestures that mean more to Serena than any trite words.

They drive home in silence, Serena slotting her hand underneath Bernie’s thigh as they go, the warm weight of Bernie’s leg a comforting constant as she drives them through the streets of Holby. Bernie pulls into the driveway with a practiced turn of the wheel, looks at Serena, as if weighing what she’ll need most today. Sometimes it’s takeaway, sometimes it’s wine. Tonight, though, Bernie thinks it’s something else.

“What about a bath?” she asks, her voice gentle, and Serena looks at her, looks at Bernie, her eyes wide, a bit of happiness creeping back in, and she nods. Bernie squeezes her hand, shuts off the car, and they go inside. Jason’s away with Alan, the house is empty and quiet. Bernie leaves Serena in the kitchen, puttering about with leftovers to make some semblance of a meal, and heads to the bedroom, to the en suite, to draw a bath, puts in scented bubbles, lights the candle that Serena keeps on the back of the toilet.

Serena follows Bernie upstairs, two ham sandwiches balanced on a plate, and they eat in the bathroom, Serena sitting on the edge of the tub, Bernie on the toilet. When the tub is full, bubbles threatening to spill over the top, they take off their clothes with unhurried ease, baring their careworn bodies to the nippy bathroom air.

Bernie steps in first, her arms and legs open, room for Serena to settle between them. She feels the same sharp feeling in her stomach whenever Serena is close and vulnerable and warm, a spout of love gushing from somewhere just behind her navel. Serena lets her head rest against Bernie’s shoulder, hums her contentment out into the stillness of the room. Their hands are clasped together on Serena’s stomach, the tops of Bernie’s fingers just visible above the water.

“I could stay like this forever,” Serena murmurs, nestling closer still, water sloshing slightly, bubbles obscuring everything.

“You’d look like a prune eventually,” Bernie says, pressing a kiss to Serena’s hair, breathing in the smell of her shampoo, the same one they both use now, but still a scent she associates with Serena above all else.

“Yes, but I’d be your prune,” Serena says. “Good for digestion.” She’s silly with tiredness, and Bernie’s chuckle makes her laugh too, a faraway sound, like she’s had to drag it up from somewhere deep inside.

“Can a prune run AAU?”

“Only if they have a very good co-lead,” Serena answers, squeezing Bernie’s hand, always proud of the partnership they’ve forged, the trials they’ve faced together.

“How are we meant to be equals if you’re a prune?” Serena snorts softly, the never-forgotten, oft-repeated comment when they were first starting out together.

“I guess you’ll have to stay here with me, become a prune too.” Serena sounds sleepy, sated, happy, and Bernie thinks she’s done her job, done the best she can do. She mutters quiet words of love into Serena’s scalp, isn’t even sure Serena can hear them, isn’t sure Serena’s even listening. But then Serena loosens her hand from Bernie’s grasps, awkwardly reaches back to pat at Bernie’s cheek.

“Thank you,” she says. “This is quite nice.”

 

**five.**

They buy a new tub. It’s bigger, more expansive. Serena made Bernie climb in it with her at the store, made sure it could fit them both comfortably, showed no embarrassment about it. “If anything, everyone looking is just envious they don’t have a leggy surgeon to share a bath with,” she said, patting at Bernie’s shoulder as she climbs out.

They don’t get to use it, not for a while, with busy work schedules and weekends spent at the hospital. But it sits in the bathroom, shiny and white and pristine and Serena thinks about it every day as she showers, can see it through the fogging of the glass around the spray.

Eventually, finally, they have a night to themselves, a night when Jason is away, a night when it’s just the two of them. Serena doesn’t even say anything to Bernie when they get home from work, just grabs a bottle of wine, two glasses, and goes upstairs. She smirks when she hears Bernie follow behind.

Setting the refreshments on the sink, Serena turns to Bernie, reaches for her jumper, pale blue like the AAU scrubs, a rare experiment in wearing color, and pulls it over her head, slides her hands down Bernie’s pale body, doesn’t say anything about the old sports bra beneath her clothes. Bernie’s hands work to unfasten Serena’s trousers, pushes them off her hips with her knickers, two birds and one stone. Serena’s blouse drops to the floor next, her vest soon after, and Bernie shimmies out of her jeans.

They sit themselves in the tub, let the water fill around them, revel in the newfound space for their limbs. Serena reaches to shut off the tap, her chest brushing against Bernie’s, and she negotiates space on Bernie’s lap, a thigh on either side of Bernie’s legs, her hands on Bernie’s shoulders, looking down into her dark brown eyes, her inscrutable face. She kisses Bernie, slow and deep and long, savoring the taste of her, the wine stuck to her tongue, her mouth, and Serena wants to get every taste of it.

Bernie’s hands hold tight to Serena’s hips, hold her close, her fingers digging into Serena’s flesh, enough that there might be imprints tomorrow. And then Serena is bereft of Bernie’s touch for a few moments, until her fingers make a reappearance at Serena’s thighs, already spread.

She seems to have a single-minded focus, intent on making Serena come while the hot water from the bath steams around them, her hair curling even more, her cheeks pinking. Her fingers are relentless and strong, curling and teasing and pulling and and Serena is gasping for release before she knows it, burying her mouth in Bernie’s shoulder, her arms clutching at Bernie’s bare back, her nails making crescents in her skin.

They sit like that for a time, Serena leaning into Bernie, against her. But then Serena’s fingers, slightly wrinkly from the water, slightly numb from their time in the bath, find their way between Bernie’s thighs, a tighter fit, a less comfortable position, but Bernie doesn’t seem to mind as she tilts her head back, hitting the wall of the bathroom, a smile playing about her features.

Serena is sure and confident in her movements, knows by now what Bernie likes, knows Bernie’s body almost as well as she knows her own. She nips at Bernie’s lips, bites the lower one, drags it slightly, then kisses her more fully, slides her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, mirrors the rhythm of her fingers with her tongue and she can feel the slight shudder of Bernie’s body that says she’s close.

Bernie’s hand joins Serena’s underwater, and it’s awkward as she slips her fingers inside Serena again, their hands bumping against one another, but Serena forgives the awkwardness as Bernie’s thumb teases her clit, mimics the movement against Bernie. There’s a comfort to the slight discomfort in their positions, a familiarity that means not every time has to be the best time or the hottest or the most passion-filled. It is sometimes this, pressed together in a bath, fingers pushing into each other, bodies leveraging against slick thighs.

When Bernie comes, it’s just before Serena does, her orgasm swallowed by Serena’s mouth, propelling the final push that sends Serena over the edge after her, gripping Bernie’s waist with her free hand.

“What do you think, big enough?” she asks when she’s caught her breath, her forehead resting against Bernie’s.

“Mmm, not sure” Bernie says contemplatively, “Maybe we’d better return it the store, see what else they have.” Serena laughs at that, full and throaty.

She kisses Bernie again, with no purpose, no intent, simply because she wants to and she can. She cards her fingers through Bernie’s hair, dragging through the tangles, her palm coming to rest against Bernie’s cheek.

“Let’s give it a fair shot before we get rid of it. Just means we’ll have to give it another go,” she says when she pulls away from Bernie’s mouth, Bernie’s head lifting slightly to follow Serena’s lips, ghosting kisses.

She looks down at Bernie’s face, eyes closed in bliss, mouth wide and happy, and smiles when she hears Bernie say, “I can live with that.”


	31. down stepped galatea with a sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two prompts! two anons!  
> 1) _life drawing AU - Bernie has art therapy and Serena agreed to model for her friend Sian's class_  
>  2) _can you explore bernie's PTSD? maybe starting off in the army and right up to now? serena finding out, finding ways to help etc? it could happen on bonfire night or at a leaving do/party?_
> 
> to be honest, this is light on both of the original prompt ideas, though they're both in there a bit! but i hope y'all enjoy all the same!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from "pygmalion to galatea" by robert graves

_Explosion. Sand. Blood. Screaming._ It’s the same every night, the minute Bernie Wolfe closes her eyes. Sometimes it’s the IED that sent her back to Holby, sometimes it’s the attack on the medic tents, patients and soldiers alike yelling for help, for mercy. Sometimes it’s an amalgamation of all the horror she’s seen, the endless broken bodies and the ongoing stream of trauma. But it’s always there, lurking at the back of her mind, just waiting for the chance to surface, to seep through the cracks in her mind, blare into her consciousness.

She doesn’t go to therapy, not right away, tries to tell herself that she can handle on her own, that she’s strong enough. It’s the Wolfe way, to soldier on through anything, to not ask for help. It’s been ingrained in her, fused to the very fiber of her being. 

It’s only after her eighth sleepless night, when her hands twitch during surgery, her fingers uncertain, unsteady, when Ric Griffin reports her to Henrik Hanssen, tells her he’s done it for her own good, that she finally seeks out some form of support. She sits in Hanssen’s office, stares at her hands as he dresses her down, his low, measured voice making her feel more shame than any shouting would. He sends her up to Hitchcock, tells her to get an appointment with a psych and to do it now. “You’re not broken, Ms. Wolfe, and I’d hate to see you go beyond repair.” There’s a thread of caring in his voice that makes wetness appear behind Bernie’s eyelids, an uncomfortable feeling of warmth spreading through her chest at the idea that someone else is concerned for her welfare.

There’s someone waiting for her when the elevator doors open, and Bernie thinks her presence has been announced, that the moment she left Hanssen’s office, he called the ward, told them she was on her way. She’s ushered into an office, light blue walls and comfortable chairs, soft lighting. There’s inoffensive art on the wall, abstract flowers, like a decorative Rorschach test. 

“What seems to be the trouble?” Mr. Peters’ voice is quiet, soothing, and Bernie sticks her hands under her thighs, makes herself look up at him, unblinking and fearless, facing an unknown foe. 

“I’m not sleeping very well.” It’s an understatement, and she thinks he knows that. She drops her gaze again, stares at her knees, knobbly and pointed through her jeans. She’s lost weight since re-entering civilian life, her white shirt baggy around her already-thin frame. “I have dreams.” She winces at the word - they’re not dreams. They’re not nightmares either. It’s something far more real than that, more vivid.

“What kind of dreams?” His voice is patient, kind, makes her want to answer his questions. She looks at him through her fringe, presses down on her hands, the weight keeping her grounded, keeping her present. She chews her bottom lip, contemplates what to say, how to phrase it. She’s always been careful with her words, precise, not prone to outbursts or thoughtless speeches.

“I was in the RAMC?” she says it as a question, knows she’s not a nonentity in this hospital, knows that her presence is talked about, discussed, stretching all the way back to her first appearance, in fatigues, strapped to a stretcher. Mr. Peters nods, folds his hands in his lap, and Bernie doesn’t know if that means he knows about her or if it’s just a signal to continue. She decides on the latter, scrapes her teeth against the inside of her mouth, the feel of something sharp focusing her in. “There was an explosion.” She doesn’t say she was in it, that she was ricocheted from a tank, that she was found splayed out in the sand, blood pouring from her, her second in command holding her together with her hands, screaming for help, for aide, for _something_. “And I ended up back here.” 

“Mmm.” Mr. Peters makes a note, and Bernie thinks he knows what she’s not saying as much as he’s hearing what she is saying. She hates psychiatrists. “Anything else in these...dreams?”

“My camp was attacked.” She feels a frog in her throat, coughs slightly, sees Mr. Peters look at her, his gaze piercing and she feels stuck to her seat, wriggles a little in discomfort, her palms going numb under her thighs. She moves her fingers a little, the tingly feeling of blood moving through her digits again offering a welcome respite from her thoughts. “We lost...a lot.” She is sparse and stoic in her words, unwilling to give anything more. She doesn’t know this man, dislikes being seen as weak.

Her session continues in this vein, her stuttering responses to his probing questions, and at the end of it, she’s sure neither one of them has gotten much out of the exchange. But Mr. Peters asks when she can come by again, suggests that the next time she has one of her vivid dreams, she write it down, bring it with her for discussion. Bernie bites her lip to keep from spewing back that she’s never forgotten a single moment of these dreams, that she’ll have one tonight, that it’s the last thing she wants to discuss with him.

Instead, she calmly schedules an appointment for the following week, tries to think what on earth she’ll talk about for another hour with Mr. Peters, starts planning her defenses, her walls, just wants to keep this part of herself at bay. 

\- 

“It’ll be _fun_ , Serena. When was the last time you had any fun?” Sian has looped her arm through Serena’s, is practically dragging her through the halls of the hospital, towards the parking lot. “I’d do it, but I’m in the class, they won’t let me. I did ask.”

“Of course you did,” Serena says, voice wry, eyebrow arched. “What do I have to do again?” She’s got a night free, desperately doesn’t want to spend it alone in her house again, with only wine and lonely thoughts to keep her company. 

“Just take off your clothes for an hour or two, let people draw you.” Sian says it like it’s nothing, like Serena doesn’t occasionally spend hours bemoaning her thick thighs, her plump stomach, the wrinkles around her eyes, like she doesn’t wish for the breasts of her youth, before breast-feeding and age had their way with them. “It’s a room of people you’ll never see again, except for me, and I’ve seen it all before.” Sian waggles her eyebrows, forcing a laugh from Serena. 

“All right, fine. But I’m drinking wine beforehand and you’re giving me a ride.” Sian squeezes Serena’s arm as they reach her car. “See you in a few hours.” Sian gives a little wave of her fingers and Serena slides into her car, takes a breath to realize what she’s committed to, begins to make a mental list of all the grooming she has to do when she gets home.

She turns on her shower as hot as it’ll go, steam immediately starting to fill the shower stall. She finds her razor, her shaving cream, shoved aside as an afterthought, something she hasn’t had much use for lately. She carefully lathers her legs, slides the bright pink plastic in even swipes through the cream until the lengths of her legs are silky, smooth. She twists her mouth as she examines her reflection in the mirror, rubs gently at the hair at the apex of her thighs, tries to decide if anything should be done to it. 

“They want a woman, they’ll get a woman,” she says to herself as she decides to leave it be. She stands under the warm spray of the shower, trying desperately to wash away any self-consciousness with the soap, to send it spiraling down the drain. 

Wrapped in her fluffy towels, she turns the blow dryer to her hair, tries to make it look slightly styled, though it’s short enough that there’s not much to be done to it. Serena dresses in loose-fitting clothes, leaves off her bra so as to avoid any unsightly lines in her skin. She doesn’t know if she’s supposed to leave her face bare of makeup, can’t quite make that concession.

Bright red lipstick and the merest suggestion of blush are all she applies, hiding her insecurities behind the boldness of her lips. It leaves an imprint on the glass of wine she downs while she waits for Sian to arrive, sits on the rim as she pours another glassful, her fingers tapping against the edge, a nervous tattoo. 

A text from Sian makes her phone light up, and Serena grabs her coat, gulps down the last of the wine, and heads out the door to the waiting car.

“Not nervous are you?” Sian asks with a laugh as Serena fumbles with her seatbelt. “Oof, you smell of a vineyard.” 

“Just a little liquid courage. I did warn you.” She tries to remind herself it’s a room full of strangers, of people she’ll never see again. She tries to remind herself to love her body, its curves and sway. She thinks of Edward’s slack-jawed appreciation of it the last time they were in bed together, thinks of Robbie sucking at her neck, whispering how beautiful she is. She thinks of the young man at Ric’s reunion who undressed her with reverence. She thinks of the way she feels when she’s got her own fingers twisting inside her, strong and powerful, every inch a woman. She smiles at Sian as she drives, hopes her teeth aren’t red with wine stains, slides her tongue across them and turns back to watch the nightlights of Holby whoosh past. 

-

Mr. Peters had suggested Bernie attend an art class, that she try some way of getting her emotions out, something that didn’t involve running herself ragged or punching a sandbag at a gym. “Something more passive,” he said and Bernie just looked at him in disbelief. 

“Passive,” she repeats, as if being passive isn’t what allows her brain to flit to moments of pain, as if being passive isn’t part of the problem. She wants to _do_ , wants to escape the confines of her mind. 

“Something that won’t add to your exhaustion,” he qualifies, and then the timer goes off, signalling the end of their session. He hands her a pamphlet for a local art class as she goes, says he knows the teacher, thinks she might find it useful.

So Bernie signs up for it, thinks at least attending this art class will mean she can fill another session talking about it so she can forestall talking about other things she’d rather not discuss with the rather taciturn psychiatrist. 

She imagines she’ll be drawing bowls of fruit, maybe molding clay with her hands, rather likes the thought of that. She parks her car in the small lot by the side of the Holby Community Center, only a few other vehicles around her. She checks the time, decides there’s enough time for a cigarette before she heads inside. 

While she’s leaning against her car, blowing smoke into the evening sky, wisps of grey disappearing into the air, she sees a car with two women pull up, one clearly badgering the other. “Too late to back out, ‘Rena - they won’t have anything to draw if you can’t get your head out of your arse.” Bernie laughs at that, then sobers immediately as she realizes the implications of the comment, that it’s a person she’ll be expected to draw tonight, a human woman, alive and breathing. It’s a bit terrifying, seeing as she’s never drawn anything before in her life, except a scribble of an MRI machine or a plan for the arrangement of medic tents at a camp.

The reluctant woman dutifully follows her friend into the building, a flood of light illuminating the sidewalk as the door opens, and it’s blinked out in an instant when the door closes with a click. Bernie stamps out her cigarette, twists her foot over top of it and scrapes the sole of her boot against the pavement, leaving the ashes behind. 

She can hear the sounds of the art class as she walks through the building, only one door in the long hallway open, and that’s the one she enters, sees a group of ten people gathered around easels, set up in a sort of semi-circle around small dais near one of the walls. There a few tables pushed back into the corners of the room, clearly indicating this room has other purposes besides the one it’s being used for this evening. There are brushes and pencils in cups around the seats, paint palettes sitting in a neat stack on one of the empty chairs. 

“You must be Bernie!” A woman descends on Bernie, dressed in a flowing floral print, hair pulled into a braid, grey wisps escaping around, creating a frizzy halo about her head, down her back. Her earrings are nebulous shapes, dangling around her chin as she moves her head. She clasps Bernie’s hands in her own. “Stephen mentioned you might come! I was so pleased when you signed up.” Bernie takes a moment to remember that Stephen is Mr. Peters’ first name. She nods, stilted, feeling off-kilter. 

“You’ve come on a good night,” she gushes. “ _Life-drawing_. I’m Evelyn, and you’ll meet the rest of the class in your own time. Find an easel - Jack over there is the only particular about where he sits and you can see he’s already claimed his spot.” She gestures at a man with a drawn mouth, his forehead creased, brow furrowed. She drops Bernie’s hands, flits away to greet someone else, the pushy woman from the parking lot. Bernie doesn’t see her friend anywhere. 

She sits at a chair near the pushed-aside tables, still with a clear enough view of the dais. Bernie supposes that’s on purpose. She pokes through the cup of art implements, decides a pencil is all she’s brave enough for today, can’t imagine using paints or pens, something far more permanent. She likes to be able to erase her mistakes, to pretend they haven’t happened, to move past them as she betters herself.

“Class! Welcome!” Evelyn claps her hand sharply, drawing all eyes to her. The rest of the men and women find their seats around the room and Bernie sizes up the woman sitting next to her, the same one from the parking lot. “We have a special guest tonight, a first-time model. Serena will be our muse, our material, our _inspiration_. Remember, it’s not about being perfect - it’s about capturing a _feeling_. As always, I’ll be walking around if you need any help, guidance, assistance.” Her speech is peppered with emphases, with flowery prose, and Bernie has to struggle not to roll her eyes.

Her mouth does drop open, though, when Serena steps onto the small dais, bringing a chair with her. With a small amount of hesitancy, she loosens her robe, drapes it across the back of the chair, baring herself to the room. She sits delicately, stiffly, on the edge of the seat, clasps her hands on her lap.

Bernie feels a flutter in her chest, a glimmer of emotion she hasn’t felt in so long. Serena is lovely, shining brown eyes, bright red lips, a dimpled chin. She is pale and smooth, a light dusting of freckles at her shoulders, giving away to an endless array of porcelain skin, catching the harsh light of the room and somehow making it alluring. Bernie doesn’t know where to start, how to start. She almost drops her pencil as she makes to place it against the paper. The woman next to her snorts, already sketching out the outline of Serena’s head, capturing her magnificent profile.

Bernie’s view of Serena is far more straight on than the woman’s next to her, and Bernie just wishes she could look at Serena from every angle, knows she’s missing the point of the exercise. She doesn’t know how to draw this feeling, doesn’t even know what to call it. Serena’s eyes flit to Bernie’s, holds her gaze for a long moment, and Bernie thinks she’s forgotten how to breath, can see Serena’s cheeks flush prettily as she blinks, looks down at her folded hands.

Hands. That’s what Bernie can start with, something she’s familiar with. Serena’s hands are lovely too, fingers crossed, nails manicured and short. Bernie wonders what she does, to keep her hands so nice. Bernie’s own palms are calloused, scarred. Her nails are uneven and jagged. She tries to think about her anatomy classes a million years ago, the detached drawing of human bodies. It seems hard to detach now.

-

Serena tries to think of a time when she’s felt more vulnerable, more aware of herself. The air in the room is cold and she can feel her nipples puckering. She supposes it might add a degree of difficulty to the drawing. It’s a relief when she doesn’t see any leering gazes, when none of the men stare at her with ogling eyes. She doesn’t feel dirty doing this, and it relaxes her a little.

She’s uncomfortable, though, didn’t seat herself well, and she can feel her rear going a bit numb as she’s perched on the end of the chair. Serena feels more antsy than she’s ever felt in her life, wants to fidget more than she ever has, something about being told not to move that makes her want to move all the more. 

With her limited range of vision, she looks at the assembled artists: a studious young man who’s painting wide sweeping strokes with a brush, Sian, near the back, who keeps winking at Serena, another woman next to Sian who can’t seem to stop staring, a beautiful woman, slim figure, messy blonde hair. Serena holds the woman’s gaze for a moment, finds it dark and penetrating, feels a thrum through her body, tenses every muscle to stop a shudder from going through her. 

She has to look away, drops her eyes, stares down at her fingers. She doesn’t look up again until Evelyn calls for a break and Serena reaches for the robe, pulls it around her body before standing, stretching her aching bones. “You’re doing well up there,” Sian says, making her way to the front of the room, patting Serena’s shoulder. “Nice of you to treat the room to a full ‘70s bush - I think Jack’s never seen anything like it before!” She laughs, high and loud and Serena wants to clap her hand over Sian’s mouth.

“I don’t want to know their names! I don’t want to know anything about them!” she hisses back, pulling her robe more snugly about herself, and rubs at her legs, wants to rub at her backside too, but thinks that might not be appropriate life model behavior. 

“You don’t even want to know about that intense woman who’s been staring at you all night?” Sian knows her too well. Serena opens her mouth, doesn’t know if she’s going to ask a question or shush Sian again, but it doesn’t matter because Sian floats back to her station, ignoring Serena’s attempt to continue the conversation, and Evelyn calls the room back to attention. 

Serena tries to be smarter in her choice of pose this time, crosses her legs, leans against the chair, rests her elbow on the back of it. She’s not facing Sian anymore, can only see two people in this position, but keeps her eyes downcast, doesn’t want to catch anyone else staring. She thinks she can still feel the eyes of the other woman on her and finds herself wondering what the woman thinks of her, if her profile is as intriguing as her front. She bites at her lip before she can stop herself, then quickly schools her face back into a neutral expression. 

“Remember,” Evelyn is trilling as she moves about the room, “do not think of the body as separate parts. Do not think of the thighs but think how those powerful muscles move the knee, how the knee leads down to the sweep of the leg.” Serena twitches the very leg Evelyn is talking about, decides there is no position that is comfortable when she has to stay still, can’t remember the last time she couldn’t even drum her fingers or toy with her necklace. 

There’s another break and Sian keeps her distance, but Serena can see her talking to the blonde woman, wonders what they’re saying. She rubs at her shoulders, licks her lips, drinks water. The last pose is standing, and Serena wishes they’d started with this. She bounces on the balls of her feet, swings her arms back and forth, tries to make her body loose. And when Evelyn announces it’s time for the pose to begin, Serena deliberately faces Sian, the other woman just in her vision if she slants her eyes. 

The woman is studiously staring at her paper, her hand moving back and forth with her pencil, as if she’s scribbling furiously. Hers are the only drawings Serena wants to see, the only ones that have piqued her curiosity. She wonders what the protocol is for looking at other people’s artwork when she’s the subject. 

It’s hard to stand straight and still, and Serena finds herself wishing she could cover her stomach, her breasts, is still feeling a little exposed, even moreso without the chair to help hide her foibles. But somehow, with her gaze occasionally drifting towards the mysterious woman, Serena finds this pose goes by the quickest, finds herself pulling the robe back on before she knows it. 

“Many thanks, Serena,” Evelyn says, clasping Serena’s hands in her own, her head bobbing in her enthusiasm. “You were a life-saver tonight. If you ever want to pose for my classes again, you’d be more than welcome.”

“Maybe next with a chaise and a glass of wine,” Serena says, earning a small chuckle. grabbing her clothes, she slips into the restroom to change back into her normal attire, to put on the garb of Serena Campbell that makes her feel strong and ready to face the world. When she enters the classroom again, only Sian and Evelyn are left. Most of the easels have had the sketches ripped off them, but Serena sees that the blonde woman left hers behind. She flips the pages to the topmost one, sees a detailed drawing of her clasped hands, every line present, her knobbly knuckles, her curved nails. The next page is of her legs, tapering off as it nears the top of her thighs, just the suggestion of the hair there before the artist clearly moved onto something else, smudging from the eraser of her pencil obvious. The last one makes the breath catch in Serena’s throat, because it’s of her face. It’s rougher than the other two, less precise, but special attention has been paid to her eyes, and Serena reaches out her fingers to gently touch the paper, the drawing of herself that shows care and thought and affection, more emotion than Serena might ever think a stranger could imbue into a portrait.

“Ah, she caught you well enough. Good thing too, as she couldn’t stop staring,” Sian says, coming up beside Serena’s elbow. “And you’ll never guess where she works.” Serena drops her hand immediately, tries to grasp at Sian’s coat but Sian’s too quick, already moving towards the door, purposefully infuriating, though Serena thinks she can hazard a guess as to where this mysterious woman works, can only hope it’s in a department that never has any need to call down to AAU. 

-

When Bernie arrives at the hospital the next morning, it’s with a slight spring in her step. She’d managed to sleep a collective four hours, her dreams smattered with warm brown eyes, with smooth thighs, a very welcome respite from the usual terror and horror of her nightmares, her memories. She doesn’t want to admit it, isn’t sure she’ll be able to tell Mr. Peters, that the art class helped, somehow. 

She heads up to Keller, only to be greeted by Ric as she steps off the elevator. “You’re on AAU today. Ms. Campbell needs some assistance apparently, there’s a trauma coming in. You’ve got the experience,” he says, and guides her by her elbow right back onto the elevator, even presses the button for her. She knows she and Ric will never be the best of friends, but can’t help that he’s pleased to be rid of her, that he still isn’t sure of her, doesn’t trust her.

The doors open on AAU, and it’s busy, bustling even. A different kettle of fish entirely than the other wards she’s been on. She heads to the nurse’s station, to see where she’s needed. There’s a collection of hospital employees gathered around a consultant, their dark head bowed over a chart, handing out assignments, nurses and registrars peeling off one by one as they receive their marching orders.

And then the consultant looks up and Bernie sees those same bright eyes, that same pert mouth and feels her face turn a bright red. Serena drops the chart, falls to her knees to pick it up and Bernie drops too, before she can stop herself, and she’s face to face with Serena, can’t believe how close they are, can feel Serena’s breath on her cheeks.

“Bernie Wolfe, reporting for duty,” she says, knows her voice is breathy, high, nervous. She’s on her hands and knees, facing the woman responsible for the best night’s sleep she’s had in months, and she just knows she’s going to make a fool of herself.

“When they said Bernie, I thought - I thought you’d be a man,” Serena says lamely, unable to meet Bernie’s eyes, pushing back on her knees, standing. Bernie doesn’t know if Serena knows who she is, doesn’t know if her friend said anything, doesn’t _know_. She dislikes being in the dark. 

“Sorry to disappoint,” she answers, trying for a cavalier tone, “but I assure you my qualifications are still the same.” She stands, holds out her hand. “And you are?”

“Serena Campbell, AAU’s consultant surgeon. Vascular specialty. Glad to have you today, there’s multiple traumas coming in and we could use your know-how.” Her palm slides against Bernie’s and her skin is just as smooth as Bernie thought it would be. Their grip holds for a long moment, their gaze holding too, and Bernie thinks she could find herself staring at Serena Campbell in any world. It’s only broken by the ringing of the red phone at the nurse’s station and Serena drops Bernie’s hand like she’s been burned, turns away and becomes the professional surgeon that Bernie would expect the head of a ward to be.

It’s only later, much later, when Bernie’s seated in Serena’s office, at the desk opposite hers, waiting for Serena to finish up with one last patient that Bernie allows herself to reflect on the day. She’d spent hours in surgery with Serena, found it easy to work with her, almost instinctive as she leaned in to stitch, asked about procedure. And Serena’s eyes above her mask, just as bright and warm as ever, buoyed Bernie through hours on her feet.

She’s gotten them drinks from Pulses, just two plain black coffees, unsure of how Serena takes it. Bernie finds herself drawing on a spare piece of paper, doesn’t realize what she’s doodling until the door to the office opens and Bernie sees the face of Serena Campbell staring up at her from messy pen lines. She blinks, and sees the same face staring down at her.

“So it was you,” Serena says, her voice clipped as she seats herself opposite Bernie. “Last night.” Bernie nods, her throat dry. She didn’t think she’d ever see Serena again, didn’t anticipate this. Definitely didn’t expect to find herself working so seamlessly with the woman who bared her body in an art class she didn’t even want to attend.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” Bernie says, wants Serena to know that first and foremost. 

“Then I’d suggest you don’t leave sketches of me laying about,” Serena says, gesturing at Bernie’s drawing, and Bernie crumples it between her fingers before she can stop herself, notices just a flash of regret move across Serena’s face. She mumbles out an apology, sweeping the drawing into the trash bin. 

“There’s a coffee for you,” Bernie says, gesturing at the small cardboard cup and Serena’s hands go around it instantly, and Bernie can only think of those fingers clasped around her bare legs, knows why her fingernails are so short, why her hands are so smooth. They are a surgeon’s hands, and she thinks she should’ve seen it straight away. “I didn’t know how you take it,” she adds as Serena takes a bracing sip.

“Strong and hot is all I care about,” she says after she’s swallowed, and Bernie smiles.

“I’ll remember that,” she promises.

-

Bernie Wolfe is assigned to AAU for the week. Hanssen says something about their intrinsic ability to work together, says something about Serena taking advantage of an extra set of hands. Serena has a hard time seeing it as anything but some sort of karmic retribution for an unknown wrong.

Still, she can’t deny how nice it was to operate with Bernie, to have someone that seems to know her thoughts as well as she knows her own. Bernie is capable in the operating room, more than capable. Her skill is evident, and Serena would be envious if she didn’t know her own talent. She takes the help that’s offered, in the end, doesn’t make a stink about it to Hanssen. 

It’s unnerving, though, to see Bernie’s eyes on her when she looks up from charting. Her eyes are dark, unfathomable, and Serena knows they’ve seen her naked. She can’t help the flush that heats her cheeks at Bernie’s gaze, can’t help the pooling of desire that forms in her stomach.

Bernie is attractive, it’s undeniable, and Serena just wishes there wasn’t this strange, unspoken thing between them, that Bernie didn’t have this secret knowledge. Not that she says anything, doesn’t even hint at it. She’s professional in every aspect, except for when she stares at Serena, long looks across the ward. And Serena, for all she tries not to, only knows about it because she’s staring back.

Bernie’s week on AAU goes by quickly, it’s one of Serena’s best weeks at Holby. She feels like she’s finally found an equal, a partner to run things with. She makes a note to ask Bernie about coming on to the ward on a more permanent basis, thinks Bernie might be more than willing to escape from Keller and Ric Griffin, judging by some of the snide comments she’s made under her breath. 

It’s surprising, that they work so well together. Serena is territorial, judgmental, untrusting, but somehow, Bernie has surpassed that, has moved right into Serena’s good graces, proved herself almost instantly, and Serena finds it hard to deny. And she’s relieved when Bernie invites her out for a drink after work on Friday.

She hasn’t seen Bernie in anything but scrubs all week, finds it almost too much to bear when she sees Bernie in tight black denim, wearing a white button down shirt that’s endearingly wrinkled. She’s even got makeup on, the first Serena’s seen too, and she thinks that maybe, just maybe, Bernie’s making a bit of an effort.

Their chemistry is undeniable, as straightforward in a bar as it is in the theater. They are fluent in each other, a language learned quickly. Bernie buys two glasses of red wine, sets one in front of Serena, says in a low voice that Sian might have mentioned something about Serena needed liquid courage in the form of shiraz to get up onto the dais at the class. 

Serena laughs, finds she doesn’t feel awkward about the mention of her modeling, just sips her wine and lets her body drift towards Bernie, her shoulder just brushing against her. When she sets her glass down, Bernie captures her hand, runs her thumb back and forth against the soft spot at the base of Serena’s wrist, and she feels every nerve ending light up, stand to attention, every cell in her body screaming out for her to touch Bernie.

And so she listens to her body, ignores her brain, and pulls Bernie into a kiss, whispers a suggestion that they go to her place, doesn’t register anything but Bernie’s breathless acceptance, and she leads Bernie from the bar by their joined hands, drives them both to her house, doesn’t even give Bernie the option to go back to her car.

As soon as her front door closes, Bernie has her pressed against the wall of her foyer, her hands in Serena’s hair, her lips hot against Serena’s neck. “I haven’t stopped thinking about you,” she hisses into the space against Serena’s collarbone. “The moment I saw you, I wanted to do this.”

Serena practically purrs at the sentiment, arches her back, rolls her neck to the side, giving Bernie more space to work with, and Bernie attacks with precision and skill, making Serena aquiver with anticipation.

They make it up to the bedroom, though Serena isn’t quite sure how, she’s simply putty in Bernie’s hands. It’s been long enough that she thinks the merest suggestion of _anything_ will tip her over to the edge, and Bernie has her hands down Serena’s pants before either of them is even fully undressed. Serena spits Bernie’s name into the air as she comes, fast and rough, and sinks back into her duvet as Bernie pulls away, stands in front of her.

“You’ve seen all of this,” Serena says, when her breath’s returned, gesturing at her body. She props herself up on her elbows, looks at Bernie meaningfully.

“I should return the favor,” Bernie agrees, her hands starting to loosen her buttons, her shirt soon falling from her shoulders. Serena’s moved so that she’s perched on the edge of the bed, can do nothing but watch as Bernie undresses, baring her body slowly, tantalizingly. Her hand goes to her neck, rubs at the loose skin there, and she can’t stop her tongue from darting out to wet her lips. 

Bernie is elegant and ungainly all at once, long limbs and knobby knees, but she is sure in her movements as her naked body moves to cover Serena’s, and Serena revels in all that warm skin, holds her close, presses kisses to her clavicle, to her jaw, to any space she can reach without lessening their contact.

Bernie begins to pull at Serena’s clothes, shoves her blouse off, throws it to the floor, slides her sodden knickers off her legs, her trousers already in a pile next to the bed, and then they are pressed together, skin to skin. Serena feels like she might burst as Bernie slides her thigh between Serena’s legs, presses ever so slightly, teases her with pressure. She bucks her hips into Bernie, grateful this isn’t a pose she has to hold for fifteen minutes.

She pushes her fingers into Bernie, sharp and fast, quirks her fingers the way she does when she’s making herself come, and they are alike in this too, Bernie panting at the sensation, gasping at the movement, and Serena doesn’t stop, not until Bernie chokes out Serena’s name, her body taut, then slack, all in a matter of moments.

They lay in bed, the room still, the air cold. Serena is reminded of her age, reminded that even she needs a bit of a rest after a good fucking. With some maneuvering, she drags the duvet over their bodies, Bernie immediately turning onto her stomach, mashing her face into the pillows. Serena lays on her side, watches Bernie, watches the movement of her body as she breathes, thinks can see the calming influence that a life-drawing class might have. 

She thinks of Evelyn’s arty voice, commanding her to look not just at her back, but at the bones beneath the skin, at the play of the muscles as she breathes, and then Serena can’t hold back, feels like she just has to touch Bernie, like she’ll burn up if she doesn’t. She reaches out, her fingers tentative gentle, as they touch Bernie’s skin, warm and slightly sweaty from their exertions, and Bernie exhales a contented-sounding sigh at the contact, which Serena takes as permission to continue her hand’s journey across the plane of Bernie’s back, rubbing against her shoulder blades, finding the ridges of her spine.

“I went to that art class on the recommendation of a psychiatrist,” Bernie says, her voice quiet in the dark bedroom, muffled in the pillow. Serena stills, her fingers halted in their dance across Bernie’s bare back. “I have nightmares.” Serena relaxes, resumes her movement, feels Bernie sink further into the mattress. 

“What kind of nightmares?” She keeps her voice detached, smooth, almost disinterested, even as she traces a design around the freckles that dot Bernie’s skin.

“About the war,” Bernie answers, turning her head so she can look at Serena. “About losing people.” Serena can see tears forming at the corners of Bernie’s eyes and moves her hand to cup her cheek, her thumb wiping away the salty drops. “I’m only telling you this because we’re in bed together, because I might wake up in the middle of the night. And because after drawing you, I slept for the first time in weeks.”

“I’ll be here for you,” Serena promises, moving past the compliment, unable to acknowledge it, to synthesize its impact. She’s had patients with night terrors, with PTSD, but she’s never had someone in her bed that might wake up in a cold sweat, only hopes she can be equal to the task of comforting Bernie. “Whatever you need.”

Bernie hums, moves her head so she can place a small kiss against Serena’s palm, nuzzles into her touch. “This is nice,” she says. “I think this is what I need.” Serena smiles, small and hopeful, and scoots down in the bed so she’s face to face with Bernie, so she can brush her nose against Bernie’s, brush her lips against Bernie’s too. 

“You know,” she says, a smile alighting on her features, can feel Bernie smiling too, the movement brushing against her face, and she warms at the sensation. “If drawing me was so beneficial to you, I could be tempted to model again. In a private session.” 

It’s Bernie’s laugh that lulls her to sleep, the last thought in her mind that she has to remember to thank Sian for talking her into the art class in the first place.


	32. she learned to love the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _anonymous asked for: bernie and serena get a puppy and basically it's just reeeeeally cute. they take long walks together, train the pup together, let 'it' snuggle into them at night, argue over what to call 'it.' I dunno, i just have strong feels about them owning a lil pupper together_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "[S]he was meant to be idle and pretty but learned instead to love the world." - Mary Oliver, Dog Songs

Bernie, as it turns out, is a dog person. She stops every dog on the street, bends down to their level, her pats and scratches rewarded with slobbery kisses, with happy tail wags. Serena is fine with dogs, she respects their existence. She is, however, far more of a cat person. When she tells this to Bernie, she gets an eyebrow waggle and “I thought I was the one to bring you around to the benefits of the feline.” 

Serena thinks nothing of Bernie being a dog person until a dog shows up at the hospital. It’s not unusual, there are dogs at Holby often enough, therapy pets, comfort animals, assistance animals. But this dog doesn’t have a leash, or a collar, or any sort of identification. It’s somehow wandered its way to AAU without detection, and is currently sitting in front of the nurse’s station, scratching at its ear.

Before Serena can launch into a speech about the potential for fleas or rabies, or any other number of fur-borne diseases, Bernie has descended upon the dog, a hand underneath its chin, gently rubbing. Serena stands, hand on hip, and holds the pose, cocked eyebrow, discerning gaze and all, until Bernie looks up at her. She expects the pleading look in her eyes, expects that Bernie has already jumped five steps ahead to long walks in the evening with this dog, to early morning runs, the dog outpacing her. She does not expect the small brown dog to affect the same gaze, and being affixed with two sets of pitifully forlorn eyes is too much for her.

“You have to bathe it. And make a good faith effort to find its owner,” she says, and turns on her heel, acting far more put out than she actually is. A dog around the house might be nice. But she doesn’t want to get too attached, doesn’t want Bernie to get too attached. Not until they know whether or not this dog is theirs to keep. 

Serena has to drive them home, Bernie in the backseat with the dog in her lap, a joyful smile on her face that hasn’t left since the moment Serena said the dog would be allowed to come home. It warms Serena’s heart to make Bernie this happy, to be able to do this small thing. She thinks Bernie might have a little of the stray dog inside of her. 

Jason, mercifully, is still living with Alan. Serena doesn’t know how she’d explain a surprise dog to him, or what something like this might do to his carefully planned routine. Animals are less likely to follow rules than even Bernie Wolfe. She does send him a text to warn him for the next time he’s over for dinner.

She watches Bernie pull on her swimsuit and climb into the tub with the dog, watches Bernie carefully wash away the dirt and grime collected in its fur. Bernie is gentle, careful, sweeter than she is with any patient, with any person apart from Serena herself. She uses dish soap, and squeezes some in her hands, carefully rubbing it into the dog’s coat. The dog doesn’t fuss, just sits happily in Bernie’s arms, lets her wash and scrub and rinse, even licks once at Bernie’s face. 

Serena hands Bernie a towel, and Bernie wraps the dog up in it, holds it close to her chest. It’s not a tiny dog, but not a big one either. A good size, Serena thinks, if they’re really going to keep it. She holds out Bernie’s bathrobe for her and Bernie steps into it, one arm at a time, never setting the dog down. Serena ties the tie for her, a neat little knot. She kisses Bernie’s cheek and says she’ll be downstairs when Bernie’s done. 

They don’t have dog food, didn’t think to stop for it, so Serena cuts up pieces of their chicken, puts it in a little bowl on the floor, puts water in another bowl for it. “Girl or boy?” she asks Bernie while they watch it eat, scarfing up the chicken as though it hasn’t had anything in weeks. Bernie leans into Serena.

“Girl. What do you want to call her?” Bernie touches her head, just once, gently, to Serena’s, and then moves away, sits in her own chair at the table in the kitchen, but doesn’t take her eyes off the dog. 

“Nothing, not until we know she’s ours,” Serena says, sitting across from Bernie. She wants to warn Bernie against getting too attached, falling too in love. There’s a pang in her heart as she’s reminded of Kiev, of the dangers of loving something too soon, when it can all get taken away. 

Serena’s grateful for her fenced backyard when they let the dog out to pee. She races around, sniffing everything, finally doing her business in the back corner, watching Bernie and Serena the whole time. She comes back inside easily enough, follows the light of the house and Bernie’s low whistle. Serena’s heard that whistle directed towards her too, when she’s wearing nothing but lacy lingerie, or a fancy gown. It has quite a different impact now. 

The dog ends up sleeping in bed with them, though Serena made noises about not letting her. They try to leave her downstairs, wrapped in a blanket, with a pillow by her head, but that lasts all of five minutes, and she comes racing up the stairs after them, the sound of paws thumping up the stairs making Bernie smile. She wriggles her way up the bed, right in between Bernie and Serena, her little nose snuffling as she falls asleep. Bernie pets her gently, doesn’t want to disturb her. 

It’s Serena who gets up in the middle of the night when the dog paws at her to go outside, a restrained yelp. Bernie sleeps deeply, never for long enough, but is hard to wake once she’s gone. Serena holds the dog in her arms as she navigates her bedroom in the dark, and the dog doesn’t wriggle against her grasp, her wet nose cold against Serena’s neck. She flicks on the backyard light with a practiced move of her hip, and sets the dog down. Again, she races around the grass, stopping to smell at the area where she’d peed before. 

Serena watches her, brown fluffy coat, dark eyes. She could swear there’s a smile on the dog’s face when she comes back up to Serena, her business taken care of, her tail wagging. Serena plucks her up again. “Come on, bub,” she says, “let’s go back to bed.” 

-

There’s a good faith effort to find her owner. They hang posters at the hospital, call the local animal hospitals, but it’s as if she appeared from the ether, a small brown dog, all fluff and no bite. So they buy a collar, a leash, dog bowls. It’s Bernie who buys toys and treats, little bone-shaped cookies that make the dog yip in excitement.

Bernie tries to take her running, wakes up early, leaves the bedroom with a kiss to Serena’s forehead, the dog in her arms. All of five minutes later, she comes back up the stairs, deposits the small animal back onto the bed, where she immediately snuggles back into Serena’s side, her nose just under Serena’s chin. 

It takes just two days for that to become routine, for Bernie to leave in the morning to run, for the dog and Serena to stay in bed together, cozy and snug, until Bernie returns to take the dog out to the backyard. 

“What’s she called?” Jason asks, when he comes over. They’ve only had the dog for three days, and Serena just calls her “darling” or “bub” or any other inane nickname that comes into her head. Bernie bends down, looks deep into the dogs eyes, her face as serious as it ever is. 

“Buttons?” she says. Jason shakes his head. “Carla? Fluffy? Mabel? Hazel?” At Hazel, the dog yips, nuzzles into Bernie’s hand, as if she’s picked her own name. “Hazel it is,” Bernie murmurs, and Serena can only watch, smiling down at her partner and her dog. If someone had asked her two years ago which would be more surprising, that she’d be living with a woman or a canine, she’d be hard-pressed to answer. 

The next day, Bernie comes home with a little silver circle, Hazel etched into it, and affixes it to the dog collar, and that is that.

Hazel turns out to be a bit of a menace, likes to chew everything, likes to investigate everything. They come home one day to the contents of their trash bin strewn out about the kitchen floor, Hazel gnawing on a ham bone in the corner of the sitting room, not even a hint of apology in her eyes as Serena scolds her for making a mess. A throw pillow gets turned into a chew toy, a corner of Serena’s bathrobe becomes permanently damp from slobber. They’re all little things, and Serena can’t find it in herself to get upset when those dark brown eyes look up at her, when Hazel’s little tail wags hard enough to shake her whole body.

They take her to the vet, find out she’s not even a year old yet. Serena doesn’t know that she wants a puppy, something so young. “We’ve raised kids, Bernie. That was hard and they could understand us,” she says with a hand at her neck, fiddling with her necklace. “Hazel doesn’t know what we’re saying.”

“Oh, hush. Hazel’s very smart,” Bernie says, her voice going a pitch higher as she turns to nuzzle at Hazel, nose to nose. Hazel yips and licks Bernie’s cheek. Serena just sighs, remembers when Elinor wanted a dog, but didn’t want to clean up after it or walk it or anything. She didn’t want to be the mean mum then, she doesn’t want to be the mean one now, doesn’t want to always be lecturing at Bernie, to always be the one cleaning up. It’s not as if she really means they’ll get rid of Hazel, she’s as attached to this dog as anything, but there’s a little part of her that’s on edge about it all. 

Thankfully, Hazel takes to house-training as if she was born to it. She nuzzles to go out, pokes at the door. Serena thinks about putting in a dog door out to the backyard, but she finds something oddly endearing about being woken up by a gentle paw at night, about carrying her downstairs, close to her chest, about the way Hazel tucks herself back in bed when they’re done, her warm little body snug against Serena’s. She doesn’t think she wants to trade that away, not when she can get back to sleep easily enough. 

-

Bernie likes to play with Hazel, to lay on the floor with her and tug at the rubber bones, to have a little war. She throws the balls that Hazel gleefully runs after - she’s got the better throwing arm, anyway. When Bernie comes home from work, Hazel is all excited barks and little jumps, her front paws at Bernie’s knees, her back paws dancing. 

Hazel is more sedate with Serena, sits with her quietly in the evenings, her head in Serena’s lap, ears relaxed as Serena methodically pats her head. Serena is the one who puts out her food, who takes her outside. “She thinks you’re like her, Bernie. Part of her litter. But she _respects_ me,” Serena says one day, laughing at Bernie’s attempts to make Hazel sit on command. To prove her point, she snaps her fingers as says, “Sit,” in an authoritative tone and Hazel’s back legs promptly bend, and she sits beautifully, posture as good as it can be in a four-legged canine. 

“Well, when you use that voice,” Bernie says suggestively from her chair in the kitchen, her head cocked just so, a smile playing at her lips, eyes dancing. Serena moves towards Bernie, places a hand on each shoulder and cranes her neck down, kisses Bernie on her grinning mouth, doesn’t stop as Bernie’s hands come up around her back, pulling Serena down onto her lap. Hazel whines a little, no treat given to her despite her stellar performance at sitting. Serena can feel her circling the chair, can feel the nervous energy coming from the little dog, but can’t stop kissing Bernie. 

It turns out that any time they want to have sex, they have to close the bedroom door. Or put Hazel in another room and close the door on her. Hazel thinks it’s a game, that they’re wrestling, wants to get involved. Or she sits and watches from the corner, and Serena dislikes that just as much. 

“Takes a bit of the romance out of it,” Serena says once, her shirt hanging off her arms, her black lace bra, picked specially for Bernie, bared to the world. It’s put a damper on the frenzied feel in her blood, to have to pause to put Hazel out into the hallway. Bernie just smiles, cups Serena’s breasts in her sure, firm hands, and gets the frenzy going again easily enough.

-

They all go for walks together, sometimes the three of them, sometimes four, if Jason is available. Hazel isn’t particularly good at walking, too intent on smelling everything, too intent on experiencing the world and everything it has on offer. Her body wriggles under bushes and jumps into muddy puddles, and she takes on the world with wild abandon. There’s a freedom in Hazel that makes Serena feel jealousy creep under her skin, and then she tells herself how silly it is to feel envious of a dog.

There’s a park near their home, with paths and trails and wide swaths of grass. Bernie will take off Hazel’s leash, throw tennis balls for her. Serena worries that Hazel won’t return, that she’ll run away, too young to know, and her heart always eases when she sees the little brown bullet come racing across the ground, bright green ball between her teeth, tail frantically waving. There’s a certain beauty in an unleashed dog, Serena thinks, to see Hazel run freely, even with the anxiety that accompanies it, the fretting that someday she won’t come back.

Bernie will bring food, sometimes. Just crackers or sandwiches. But she brings a blanket too, spreads it out on the grass and rests her head in Serena’s lap, Hazel wandering around, bringing back presents of pine cones and sticks, begging for scraps of meat, for treats. Bernie doesn’t seem to worry about Hazel, seems confident in the dog’s love for them, and Bernie’s surety helps Serena feel better about it too. 

-

Sometimes Hazel comes to work with them, back to the place where they found her. She loves to ride in the car, sits in the back with her front paws on the window, her nose pressed against it. When it’s warm, they roll down the window and she sticks her head out, tongue panting. She stays in Bernie’s office, a small bed set up in the corner for her. She whines when Serena leaves, but it’s not as acceptable for the CEO to have dog hair on her office chairs. On the days when she’s at Holby, Serena always finds more excuses to visit AAU, to have lunch in Bernie’s office, to kiss the little brown head, to let Hazel’s rough tongue kiss her back. 

“You don’t let me kiss you at work,” Bernie says once, idly moving her chair back and forth as she nibbles at a sandwich from Pulses. She sets it aside as Serena pointedly moves Hazel from her lap, down to the floor, and Hazel agreeably scampers to her little bed in the corner, curls up and begins investigating her paws closely. She closes the office door and moves purposefully to Bernie, braces her hands on the arms of the swivel chair, leans down so her breath is against Bernie’s cheek. 

“When you’re as well behaved as Hazel,” she says, her lips so close to Bernie’s ear, “we might consider it.” 

Bernie barks out a laugh, an unexpected sound of glee, and she moves quickly, darts up to kiss Serena before she can move away. “Oh, I love you,” she says, a rare and surprising declaration that warms Serena to her toes. “I love our life,” she adds, an even rarer admission. Serena supposes she can spare another kiss, just this once, and slides her tongue into Bernie’s mouth, her hands go into Bernie’s hair. She only pulls away at Hazel’s tiny whine, worried that she’s no longer the center of attention. 

“I love our life too,” she says, gives Bernie one more peck on the lips, a practiced, easy gesture, one she knows she’ll be doing for the rest of her days. She pulls away, Bernie’s hands dropping from her sides. She squats to Hazel’s level, kisses the soft brown fluff again, brushes back the hair from her eyes and is struck by the humanity in the little dog’s gaze. 

“I’ll see you at home,” she whispers to Hazel, words meant just for her, and turns to look up at Bernie, sees the same emotion mirrored in Bernie’s dark eyes. One more pat to Hazel’s head, and Serena pushes herself up. “I’ll see you at home too,” Serena says to Bernie, her fingers twitching because she wants to reach out to touch Bernie as well. But as she stands, as she moves towards the door, she’s becoming CEO again. There are restrictions there.

“Home,” Bernie agrees with a smile, her dark eyes shining, and Serena knows she understands. Hazel yips softly, her tail wagging just once, and Serena leaves the office, leaves her two dark-eyed loves behind and knows she’ll see them at home.


	33. you were brave, you are splendid, and we will never be alone in this world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a friend wanted a fic where Serena didn't know she was into Bernie, but felt jealousy and anger about Bernie dating someone else! this is that fic! title from "san bernardino" by the mountain goats

Serena Campbell has gone through most of her life alone. She never had siblings to look after, to team up with. She strove to be top of the class, never wanted to work in groups, to have a study partner. A woman in medicine is a lonely road, and one she’s taken knowingly, every path she’s chosen leading her to the life she has now, a well-respected, but somewhat feared, vascular surgeon, head of a ward at a hospital. She’s never thought she needed anyone else. “People like to feel needed,” her mother had said, when Serena was getting divorced, and Serena rolled her eyes, didn’t want to have to sacrifice herself to take care of someone else’s ego. 

And then Bernie Wolfe came down to AAU, an infuriatingly competent woman, and Serena found herself wanting to be liked for the first time in her life. Bernie feels like a real friend, like someone she can depend on. It’s a little terrifying, but it’s nice, in its own way. She likes having someone to get coffee with when it’s slow in the mornings, someone to share a sandwich with between emergencies. 

Maybe it’s because she’s a woman, and she’s been on a similar journey, Serena reasons. Being a ranking woman in the military must have some corresponding experiences with a woman going for her MBA, her medical license. There’s an understanding they share, one that sets Serena at ease. She just likes Bernie, likes having her around. 

And it’s nice when Bernie shows up for her shift with a fresh coffee in hand for Serena, and a pastry too. “Thought you might be flagging,” she says, handing over the chocolate croissant. Serena smiles as she takes both the food and drink in her eager hands. 

“I am, a bit. Two emergency surgeries this morning, and one code just before you came in. This is a godsend.” She takes a bite of the flaky pastry, sending crumbs flying onto her desk, onto the paperwork she’s putting off until she absolutely has to. 

“AAU is keeping you on your toes today, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie says, a glint in her eye, and Serena smiles, flushes with pleasure. When Bernie uses her title, it sounds like a nickname, like familiarity, and she likes it, feels the warmth at it spread all the way to her feet. 

“As if it doesn’t every day, _Ms. Wolfe_ ,” Serena answers in kind, tipping her coffee in Bernie’s direction in mock salute. She smiles as she sips, the liquid sliding easily down her throat, the caffeine stirring her senses, blowing the second wind into effect. 

She hands over charts to Bernie, and shoos her from the office, content settle in on the paperwork she dislikes, now that she knows her ward is in good hands. The office door stays open, standard protocol when the ward is bustling, easier to get to the floor in case of emergency. She can see Bernie, standing at the nurse’s station, chatting easily with Morven and Fletch, chuckling at something Raf calls out. 

Bernie always covers her mouth when she laughs, an attempt to keep that donkey bray at bay, and Serena wishes she could find whoever it was that made Bernie feel self-conscious about her laugh and give them a sharp kick to the rear. She loves the sound of it, the loud noise, emanating from such a woman, one of her few imperfections. 

She casts an eye about their office, at the mess on Bernie’s side of it, another imperfection, though she’s managed to keep it contained to her half, wrappers never finding their way across the desk, balled up tissues in small piles like some sort of malformed model of the pyramids at Giza. Serena doesn’t clean up after Bernie, it’s one of her rules, but knows by the end of the week, it’ll all be swept into a trash can, the desk clean and ready to be made a mess of on Monday morning. 

When it’s time for her to leave, Bernie with a few hours still to go on her shift, Serena stops by the nurse’s station, where Bernie is standing, head bowed over a chart, lips pursed in thought. “Have a good evening,” she says, with a gentle touch to Bernie’s elbow. She’s noticed Bernie’s first instinct is to always stiffen at a touch, but then she relaxes into it, lets Serena be close, her eyes warm and soft when she looks at her. 

“You too. Fish and chips with Jason?” she asks, turning, closing the chart, resting an elbow on it so she can face Serena, her posture relaxed, easy, like this is the thing she’d most like to be doing in the world. 

“That’s Wednesdays. Tonight is cottage pie, which means I must be off, if I’m to have it made in time. Just wanted to say good-bye before I left,” Serena says. She always stops by to say good-bye to Bernie, or hello, or anything in between. She likes to know where Bernie is, likes to have Bernie know where she is. Bernie smiles, nods, and Serena wonders if she’s filing that information away, keeping a mental list of what it is Jason likes and doesn’t like.

“Give him my best,” she says, and turns back to the chart, summarily dismissing Serena, though it doesn’t feel rude or abrupt. She’s good with Jason, good enough. She doesn’t always understand what it is to live with Asperger’s, or to live with someone who has Asperger’s, but she does better than most and she tries, which is more than Serena can say for most people. She thinks of Robbie in particular, thinks Edward wouldn’t have been much good with Jason either. 

She lets herself have one last look at Bernie as the elevator doors close, the blonde hair falling across her face, hiding the concentration that Serena knows is there, and then she heads home.

-

“Coming to Albie’s?” Serena asks in the locker room, shouldering her purse, folding her scrub cap and placing it gently on top of her already folded scrubs. Bernie’s changing, her dark blue scrubs in a pile on the floor. Serena puts down her bag, reaches to grab the discarded clothes, to throw them into the laundry bin. 

“Are you?” Bernie asks, pulling her shirt over her head, and Serena looks away, averts her eyes from the pale skin dotted with moles, disappearing under the white fabric of her top. 

“When am I not?” she asks, picking up her bag again, looking anywhere but at Bernie Wolfe. Bernie chuckles softly, bangs her locker shut, spins the dial on the lock. “I’ll buy your first round.” Serena likes it when Bernie is at Albie’s, when she has a friend to talk to at the bar, when they can sit quietly in the corner and talk about their lives, when she’s not relegated to making conversation with Ric or Sacha. 

“And the second round’s on me,” Bernie promises. They leave the locker room, shoulders brushing, not a whisper of space between them. 

Albie’s is crowded and loud, some sort of dating party with traffic lights. Serena rolls her eyes as she’s handed a controller, switches it to red right away. Bernie awkwardly takes hers, fiddles with it for a moment, sets it to yellow, then to green. 

Serena lets out a whistle, low and soft. “Getting out there again, are we?” she asks, eyes dancing. Bernie looks rueful, embarrassed. “It’s good, Bernie, if that’s what you want,” Serena says, turning serious, taking one of Bernie’s hands in her own. Bernie gives her a shy smile and squeezes her hand, just once, before taking the glass of red wine Serena bought for her and turning to look for a table with two chairs. 

No one comes up to Bernie the entire night, and Serena feels strangely grateful for that, wonders if it’s because she was there with Bernie, the whole time. She wonders if she’s monopolizing Bernie’s time, holding her back. She says as much to Bernie, who looks at her strangely. 

“I wanted to spend the night with you,” she says, her cheeks turning pink as she realizes how it sounds. “What I mean is that you didn’t get in the way of anything. I’d rather drink wine with you than be chatted up by some drunken bloke who will never realize he’s not my type.” Serena smiles at that, takes it for what it is, and lets Bernie help her with her coat. 

They walk slowly back to Holby, where their cars are waiting for them, parked next to each other in the lot. “Thanks for coming out,” Serena says as she unlocks her car. “It was nice to have a drink and not have to talk about the hospital at all.” It’s true, usually she gets roped into some conversation or another about protocol or which doctors are sleeping together, or a toast in honor of a particularly memorable patient.

“It was,” Bernie agrees, and then they’re just standing there, Serena with her hand on the handle to her car door, Bernie leaning against the door to the backseat, her hip just resting at the window. It feels intimate, somehow, and strange. Serena forces a smile to her face and shakes her head slightly, disrupting her short fringe. 

“See you tomorrow?” she asks, opening the door, the light from inside her car casting strange shadows on the ground next to them. Bernie nods, shoves her hands in her pockets and heads to her car, casting an inscrutable look at Serena before she slides into the driver’s side of her own vehicle. 

-

Serena supposes she should have expected it, then, when Bernie says she can’t come out because she has a date. “With a woman?” Serena asks inanely, and Bernie laughs, quick and soft and says yes, with a woman. “What’s her name?”

“Rebecca.” Bernie seems reticent to offer any further information, so Serena doesn’t push it, but can’t set aside the feeling that seems to be squeezing at her heart, making it hard to sit comfortably, hard to focus on anything else. 

She sees this Rebecca person when Bernie leaves, a tall woman with curly red hair, and she’s very pretty, and Serena feels like she hates her, but can’t put her finger on why, just feels the anaconda grip on her heart tighten again and she gasps at the sensation. 

“Did you have fun last night?” she says the next morning, when Bernie appears, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, two coffees in hand. She thinks there’s an edge of bitterness to her tone and can see the surprise on Bernie’s face at it. She wishes she knew what it was, why she’s being this way, but just puts a smile on, tries to make Bernie see that she’s fine. 

“I did,” Bernie says carefully, sliding the coffee cup towards Serena as she settles in the visitor’s chair next to Serena’s desk. “We had dinner. She likes white wine.” The second statement is added belatedly, with a small smile, and Serena doesn’t know what to make of it. Is it a good thing that she likes white wine? Is it a bad thing that Serena likes red? 

“Where did you meet her?” Serena asks before she can stop herself, isn’t sure she wants to know, doesn’t want to think about Bernie at a bar, with an attractive woman sidling up to her, sliding her number, written on a napkin, across the counter at her. 

“She has a friend up on Keller,” Bernie says, “Nothing serious, nothing too bad. She stopped in at Pulses on her way out the door and we got to chatting.” It’s worse than Serena thought it could be, that Bernie met someone here, where they work, that it’s someone kind and considerate enough to visit her friends in the hospital. 

“Chatting?” Serena hates how high her voice sounds. “Is this really the place to pick up women?” The bitterness is back in her voice and she can’t stop it. She just wishes Bernie had met this woman somewhere else, anywhere else. Now there’s no quarter that will be free of her, and Serena will have to share Bernie, will have to share her friend, with someone else. 

“It wasn’t as if I set out to find a date when I went down to pick up a coffee,” Bernie says, a little huffily and Serena can’t even blame her. “We both tried to order the last croissant - which I was buying for you, by the way - and I let her have it.” Bernie’s set her cup down on the chair next to her, arms folded. Serena chews her lip. 

“No, no, of course you weren’t trawling the halls for women. I’m sorry, Bernie. I am. I’m happy you’ve had a date, and that it went well.” Serena forces the words out, smiles at Bernie as best she can and tries to shake loose the snake that has once again coiled itself around her heart.

Bernie doesn’t come out to Albie’s for two straight weeks, and Serena hates it, hates drinking her wine alone at the bar, hates it more when Morven sits next to her out of pity, when Guy Self makes barbed comments about women of a certain age sitting by themselves in bars. 

And when she does finally come, it’s with Rebecca in tow, and Serena thinks she might hate that more. They sit together, the three of them, and Serena sees how Bernie shifts her chair closer to Rebecca, so her knees don’t brush against Serena’s like they usually do. She thinks that under different circumstances, she might give Bernie’s shoulder a pat when she gets up to use the loo, but stops herself, clenches her fist to keep from touching Bernie. 

Rebecca is clever and witty, and Serena can hear Bernie’s loud laugh echo through Albie’s, her hand clasped in Rebecca’s, not clapped over her mouth to keep in the sound. She makes her way back to the table, and learns that Rebecca is a teacher, that she’s well-traveled, that her father was in the army. “How lucky you bumped into each other,” Serena comments, tries her best to keep out the scathing tone that’s threatening to mar her words. 

Rebecca nods, and Serena can see her squeeze Bernie’s hand. And then Bernie leans in, brushes her lips against Rebecca’s, once, twice, a third time, lingering slightly, looking deep into Rebecca’s eyes before she pulls back. Serena feels her heart stop and start all in the space of a few seconds, feels it throbbing against her ribcage, wonders briefly if she’s having a heart attack.

“I have to go,” she says, standing quickly, shoving her chair back so hard it tips over, clattering loudly, just as the song playing from the jukebox trails away, and everyone seems to be looking over at their table. Serena feels her face heat up, hot and red, and she bends down to pick up the chair, pushes it into the table. “Jason,” she says by way of explanation, though it’s a lie, and she thinks Bernie knows it. She almost reaches out to touch Bernie’s shoulder, the way she usually says goodbye, but doesn’t.

“Lovely to meet you, Rebecca,” she says. “See you tomorrow, Bernie.”

“I’m off tomorrow,” Bernie says in a small voice and of course she is. Serena spreads her lips in what she hopes looks somewhat like a smile, though she fears it’s more of a grimace. She imagines Bernie and Rebecca will spend the day together, that they’ll get coffee in the morning, kiss over bagels, hold hands as they stroll along somewhere. 

“The next day, then,” she says, her voice too loud, overly cheery, and she makes herself leave before she can say anything else, see anything else. She takes a cab home, feels her thoughts all jumbled and doesn’t trust herself to drive. 

She pours herself a glass of wine and sits in bed, and hates Rebecca with every fiber of her being, lets her feel angry about the woman’s existence, doesn’t make herself think about why. And when she falls asleep, she thinks about Bernie, dreams about her mouth, her lips, the gentle brush of her hair against her cheek, and tells herself to forget about it in the morning.

\- 

Serena welcomes the space from Bernie, the time apart. She practically revels in the day without her. There’s no mess on the other side of the office, no unsigned charts left behind, nothing to distract her. She’s never needed anyone before, she doesn’t need Bernie Wolfe. She thinks AAU runs better when it’s just her, more smoothly, when there’s only one consultant to talk to. She’s been alone for most of her life, she can continue in that vein forever. She tells herself that enough that she almost believes it by the time her shift is over.

It’s only when she walks to her car alone that she lets herself realize she missed Bernie today, that even though there were no empty coffee cups and discarded candy bar wrappers, there were other things she’s missed, more important things. For all that she can tell herself she’s fine being alone, she _likes_ having someone close to her, likes having someone to bounce ideas off of. 

She likes Bernie.

That thought floats around in her brain, the only thought on her mind as she sits in her office, well past the end of her shift, the only light in the room coming from the lamp in the corner. She likes Bernie. She _likes_ Bernie. She thinks about Bernie’s lips again, thinks about Bernie’s soft mouth, the way she smiles without showing her teeth, the way she always goes too wide with the chapstick, the skin around her mouth shiny with the stuff. 

She thinks about kissing Bernie.

She feels the constriction around her heart again at the thought of it, lets herself label it for the first time as jealousy. She’s jealous of Rebecca, of the attention she gets from Bernie, of the way Bernie lights up when she sees her. She’s jealous that Rebecca gets to kiss Bernie. Serena steeples her fingers, rests her chin against them, tries to decide what it means to want to kiss Bernie, tries to decide if she wants to do more than kiss Bernie.

She decides she definitely does.

She thinks of the paperwork involved in two coworkers becoming involved, feels her cheeks flush at the thought of being _involved_ with Bernie, and knows she can’t deny what she wants anymore. She purses her lips, tries to calm her beating heart, her roiling stomach, knows she’ll have to face Bernie tomorrow.

It’s easier said than done to see Bernie. She’s tried to prepare herself, spent the night telling herself they’re friends, nothing more, that she has to be respectful of Rebecca, of what she and Bernie have. She tells herself that Rebecca is a good person, that she’s a nice person, that under any other circumstances, Serena would be glad to know her.

But they arrive to the hospital at the same time, and Bernie waits for Serena so they can walk in together. She looks happy, pretty, her hair light and fluffy, and Serena lets herself watch the way it catches the sun they go through the doors. 

“Did you have a good day off?” she asks carefully, so conscious of her tone. Bernie slants a look at her sideways, as if she knows Serena’s actually asking about her time with Rebecca, and Serena blushes, knows she’s been caught out.

“It was fine,” Bernie says, and pays for both their coffees before Serena can stop her.

Serena tries not to parse this, tries to reel her thoughts in, and says no more about it, just accepts her cardboard cup with a smile, and takes a warming sip. She tells herself the day will be fine, it will be good, that nothing is different, nothing has changed.

Then Bernie yawns while Serena’s in the middle of explaining something that happened the day before and she yells at Bernie, yells at her right in the middle of AAU, yells at her about nothing, though it feels like everything in the moment, all the jealousy and stockpiled emotion coming barreling out in full force. Tells her off for being tired, for frivolously wasting her time away from the hospital, for not being in top condition when she comes to work. Bernie holds her hands up in surrender, and Serena storms off to the office, just barely stops herself from slamming the door. 

It’s moments later when Bernie comes in, and Serena can’t bring herself to look up at her, can feel the shame and embarrassment washing over her in steady waves. “I didn’t mean to yell,” she says, because she doesn’t want to say “I’m sorry.” Bernie doesn’t say anything, and Serena doesn’t have anything else to add, so they just sit there, Bernie perched on the edge of Serena’s desk, the concern coming off of her like steam. 

“What’s wrong?” Bernie asks finally, after they’ve sat in silence long enough, the door to their office closed, the blinds drawn, the outside world shut out completely.

“I don’t,” Serena starts, looks down at her hands, unable to look into Bernie’s eyes, dark and probing. “I don’t like Rebecca.” It’s simplistic, it’s a lie, but she’s not quite ready to say what she means, what she really feels. Her lips twist on the words she won’t speak aloud and she makes herself look up at Bernie, sitting on the edge of her desk, blonde fringe keeping her mysterious. 

“What’s wrong with Rebecca?” Bernie asks, reaching for Serena’s arm, to touch her. It’s Serena’s own fault, she’s the one who started all this touching business, all the gentle caresses, the easy gestures. She’s the one who made it impossible to go for a day without patting Bernie’s shoulder as she passes, who walks too closely to Bernie in the hallways. And now she’s the one flinching from Bernie’s fingers, shrinking back in confusion. 

“She’s not...she’s not right for you, Bernie,” Serena says, and looks back down at her folded hands, clasped, her nails digging into her skin to keep her from crying or yelling, she’s not sure which will happen first. 

“Oh?” Bernie shifts slightly closer to Serena, rustling the papers still left on her desk, disorganized piles, a perfect visualization of her current mental state. She can almost feel the heat of Bernie, always aware of her, ever-present in a corner of her mind, in the beating of her heart. She wonders if Bernie can hear the loud pitterpat that she feels sure is emanating from her chest. “Who is right for me?” Her voice is low, warm, and Serena can’t bear it. “Serena?” That sibilant pronunciation of her name, that quiet question, the way Bernie’s tongue caresses the syllables. 

She feels the tears forming in her eyes and she makes herself look up at Bernie once more. Bernie’s hand is on her cheek in an instant, her thumb rubbing gently, so gently, at her cheek, the salty water collecting on her finger. She blinks, feels her eyelashes brush against Bernie’s thumb, keeps her eyes closed as she musters up her courage, her honesty, and when she opens her eyes again, she opens her mouth too, and says, so softly, “Me?”

It comes out hesitantly, as a request, and it’s not what she wants, not when she’s so sure of herself, not when she’s spent so much time thinking about this, wanting this, admitting to herself that this is what’s happening, that this is a part of who she is. Bernie’s thumb doesn’t stop it’s tender movements, she doesn’t withdraw, doesn’t move except for her fingers, insistent against Serena’s cheek. 

The quiet is unbearable and all Serena can do is stare up at Bernie, who is staring back at her, and she takes a shuddering breath, and reaches up to cover Bernie’s hand with her own. “Me,” she says more clearly, and sees a smile tip the corners of Bernie’s mouth. And this time, when Bernie reaches for her, when she leans in, Serena doesn’t move away. 

The taste of Bernie is just what she’d expect, coffee and toothpaste and the sandwiches they had for lunch. Her lips are chapped, but soft enough, and Serena can’t believe she’s waited this long to press her mouth against Bernie’s. The kiss is chaste, so chaste, but it leaves Serena’s stomach fluttering, her pulse racing. She pushes her chair back, stands so she’s even with Bernie, and feels like fawn in the forest, unsure of how to walk on new legs. Bernie smiles, wider, more fully, and takes pity on Serena, slides her palm against Serena’s neck, her fingers in the short ends of Serena’s hair, and gently guides Serena back towards her mouth, joins their lips once more.

Serena hums at the back of her throat, gives herself permission to touch Bernie, a hand at her shoulder, one at her waist, doesn’t think she can touch Bernie’s hair, not yet. She opens her mouth into the kiss, feels Bernie’s tongue flick against her own, once, then twice, and then Bernie slips her tongue fully into Serena’s mouth and Serena feels her lashes flutter at the sensation, hears the little grunt of appreciation escape from her mouth as she kisses Bernie like a thirsty woman at a well, lapping her up, unable to get her fill. 

When she pulls back for air, she’s loathe to put any distance between them, tilts her head against Bernie’s, keeps their foreheads touching, her breath coming in labored pants. She can’t remember the last time she’s been snogged so fully, so well. 

This feels like too good a reward for her petulance, like she doesn’t deserve it after acting so immaturely, but Bernie’s hand is still warm in her hair, their bodies are still close, and Serena thinks maybe she didn’t have to earn this, that it’s just hers to keep. “What about Rebecca?” she asks, can’t help herself, and Bernie sighs, moves her hands to Serena’s shoulders, puts the smallest distance between them so she can look Serena in the eye. 

“I didn’t think she was right for me either,” she says with the tiniest of smiles, and Serena can’t stop herself from beaming in response, knows it’s childish, but she feels victorious, like she’s won. She leans in to kiss Bernie, once, softly, because she can now, because she wants to, and she likes the way Bernie’s lips look with her lipstick smeared across them. “And I thought there might be someone else who was interested,” she adds, “who just didn’t know it yet.”

“I know it now,” Serena says, feels the tears forming in her eyes again, but they’re tears of pure joy, of emotional release, she doesn’t know if she’ll feel sad, not with the memory of Bernie pressed against her. Bernie nods, smiles, wipes Serena’s tears away, cups her face between her hands, and Serena feels safe, secure. Loved. And the thought doesn’t scare her.

“Want to go to Albie’s tonight?” she asks, her voice quavering, and Bernie laughs, a soft exhalation of breath as she swipes once more at the water on Serena’s face. “After we’ve reassured our coworkers I haven’t eaten you alive in here.”

“That comes later,” Bernie says, a hint of promise in her voice, an edge of... _dirtiness_ , and Serena can feel the pleasure thrum through her. She places another kiss on Serena’s lips, a kiss to her forehead, like a blessing, and Serena feels a sense of bliss she didn’t know was possible. She rubs her thumb against Bernie’s lips, her lipstick coming away, and Bernie’s tongue darts out to wet the digit, quickly and fast, before Serena can really react. She runs a hand through her own hair, reaches out to touch Bernie’s silken strands, tucks a hank of it behind Bernie’s ear, lets her hand linger. 

“Okay,” she says. “Okay.” She steadies herself, looks deep into Bernie’s dark eyes, and finds some kind of inner peace. “To be continued,” she promises and Bernie grins, devilish and happy, and Serena wants to see that expression every day for the rest of her life, vows to make it so.

And then they go back out onto the ward, shoulder to shoulder, together.


	34. the world is little

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous prompted:Five places Bernie and Serena would never have sex

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _“The world is little, people are little, human life is little. There is only one big thing — desire.”_ \- Willa Cather

**one.**

Serena doesn’t know how Bernie’s done it, convinced her to go camping. Something about finding all of her old gear when cleaning out the storage unit full of all her belongings from her life before, her life with Marcus. Serena blames herself for that, didn’t expect that asking Bernie to move in would result in this purging of her past.

But when she talks about taking her children camping, of s’mores late at night, of the smell of the campfire, her face is bright, happy, alive, and Serena is powerless to say no. So she buys a sleeping bag, batteries for the torches, insect repellant. She finds her oldest, rattiest jeans and packs them in a duffel bag, can’t quite remember the last time she packed in anything that didn’t have wheels. Bernie is elated, overflowing with happiness, a boiling kettle of glee, and Serena will do anything to keep that feeling.

They drive out to the country, out to a campground Bernie knows. They have to leave the car behind, take their things in on their backs. Serena wiggles her toes in her new hiking boots, bought on Bernie’s suggestion, and she’s grateful for them, even if she feels a bit ridiculous, feels a little like her feet are giant as a clown’s.

It’s not a long walk, and Serena can see other tents dotting the landscape, through the trees. She can even catch a whiff of campfire, thinks that if she’d had a different childhood, the smell would be nostalgic for her. Bernie leads the way, finds them a wide flat space that she says will be perfect for their tent, a small firepit nearby. Serena can’t see the toilets, can’t see any indication of where she’s expected to relieve herself, but isn’t quite ready to hear the answer she’s sure Bernie will tell her.

Bernie tasks with collecting wood for a fire while she pitches the tent. Serena gets a bit distracted, likes to watch Bernie work, can clearly see she’s in her element. She finds enough wood, though, dumps it in a pile, and sits on an upturned log, waiting for her next bit of instruction.

She’s handed the small camping mattresses, rolled up into tiny bags. She pulls the drawstring loose, feels a sense of surprise at how compact the things are, though she saw Bernie stow them away. She fiddles with the endcap, is relieved they’re self-inflating. For all they’ve been through, she’s not sure Bernie, nor anyone else for that matter, needs to see her with puffy red cheeks as she tries to blow up a mattress.

Serena watches Bernie build the fire, making a tent out of the logs, dropping some homemade contraption at the base, says it’s a firestarter, that her dad taught her how to make them years ago. She pulls her hoodie closer, the air getting colder as the sun goes down. They have a paltry meal, and Serena tries to get in the spirit of things, tries to remember how excited Bernie is about all of this. She thinks she’s playing it off rather well until Bernie hands her a flask. “Looks like you need it,” Bernie says, and when Serena flips the top back, all she can do is smile at the strong smell of shiraz.

“I’m having a good time,” she says, as much to reassure herself as Bernie. “Just a little cold.” Bernie’s lips quirk in a cat-like grin as she moves closer to Serena, their bodies pressed together.

“Anything I can do to warm you up?” Serena laughs, takes a long sip from the flask, then turns to Bernie, their faces almost touching, she can count every freckle, every mole. They stare at each other, like they always do. Serena gets so caught up in looking at Bernie, in seeing the emotions flick across her face, in finding the warmth hidden there, in feeling amazement that this woman should want to stare back. She’s the one to lean in first, to press her lips to Bernie’s. She snakes her hands under Bernie’s top, her warm skin a balm to Serena’s cold fingers.

Bernie pulls them to a standing position and Serena hadn’t realized how uncomfortable sitting on a log really is until her legs straighten. She thinks they’re moving towards the tent, but her eyes are closed and she’s trusting Bernie, letting her lead their bodies as she slides her tongue into Bernie’s mouth.

Instead her back hits the hard trunk of a tree, and she feels her hair snag a bit on the rough bark. But she doesn’t stop kissing Bernie, has never really kissed her outdoors like this, has never felt so free, the cold air moving past them, the stars just becoming visible, no pollution to hide them.

She pulls her lips from Bernie’s only to detour to her chin, her neck, to lick the pulse point that makes Bernie shudder from pleasure. She thinks she can taste the campfire on Bernie’s skin, knows she’ll always think of this moment whenever she can smell a fire blazing.

Bernie’s hands are roving around Serena’s body, touching and testing and teasing, squeezing her arse firmly, holding their hips close, and Serena feels she’s found a new appreciation for camping, for nature. She thinks she could do this all night, thinks she could do it forever. If Bernie asked her to give up everything and live in a camper van for the rest of their lives, she thinks, in this moment, she would say yes.

A snapping twig in the fire brings them down to earth, makes them jump apart, Serena’s face flushed, Bernie’s cheeks red from Serena’s lipstick. “I’d planned for s’mores but, ah, perhaps the tent?”

“Mm, yes, the tent,” Serena agrees, brushing a hand through her short strands, straightening, loosening the newly-formed tangles, dislodging a leaf that somehow found its way into her hair. Bernie ducks down, unzips the front flap of the tent and all but launches herself inside. Serena tries for a little more elegance as she crawls in and isn’t quite sure she manages.

The tent is dark, lit only slightly by the flames from the fire, dancing shadows on the waterproof fabric. Serena uses her hands to find Bernie’s face as her eyes adjust to the dim light. Bernie pushes the hoodie from Serena’s shoulders, latches on to Serena’s neck, pulling the neck of her shirt aside, biting and nipping and Serena will blame the mosquitos if anyone asks about the marks on her skin.

The cold chill she felt earlier is forgotten, the whole tent seems like a sauna as eventually skin is pressed against skin. Serena arches against Bernie’s naked body, her fingers imprinting on her back, her nails leaving behind mirrors of the crescent moon in the sky. She bites her lips to keep the moans inside, thinks sound must travel well in the wilderness, but can’t stop the grunt that escapes her as Bernie pushes three fingers, then four, inside of her, filling her, stretching her. She wants to be laid open, wants to be left bare under the stars, with only Bernie as her cover. She thinks she can feel the vastness of nature, of the universe, flowing through her, her world coming down to the smell of wood on Bernie’s skin, the taste of ash in her mouth, the damp smell of the forest all around them.

As she stifles another cry, she thinks, perhaps, camping might become a yearly tradition.

 

**two.**

It’s cold outside when Bernie joins Serena on the bench in front of the ambulance bay, her breath making small puffs in the air. She’s clutching two cups of coffee, her hoodie zipped up. Serena is wearing nothing put a set of scrubs, her long cardigan pulled tight across her chest. “Long morning?” she asks, because she hasn’t really seen Serena, the two of them running back and forth between patients and surgeries and consultations.

Serena nods, taking the offered cup with a smile and Bernie watches her wrap her fingers around the cardboard sleeve, sliding it up and down in an idle motion. “Stressful too. Not to be cliche, but it feels particularly Monday-ish today.”

Bernie sips at her coffee, toys with the strings of her sweatshirt, can just barely feel the heat emanating from Serena, moves just a titch closer, their shoulders brushing. “Cold out here,” she says, an inane thing to say. Serena turns her head, eyebrow raised.

“It _is_ February, darling.” The endearment makes Bernie’s cheeks flush, the small word always making her feel wanted, cherished. She bumps her arm against Serena’s, a companionable touch.

“Could do with a little warming up.” Bernie lets a flirtatious tone creep in to her words. It’s a game they play sometimes, when they’re alone, how far they can go before they’re interrupted by someone, or before one of them (usually Serena) puts a stop to it.

“Out here? In broad daylight? Really, Ms. Wolfe, I’m surprised.” Serena manages to sip at her coffee with a prim air about her, her pinky finger crooked just so.

“Well you’ve said we can’t do anything inside the hospital,” Bernie says with a waggle of her eyebrows. “This isn’t inside the hospital.”

“Correct in the letter of the law, if not the spirit of it.” Serena’s eyes are dancing and Bernie grins, thinks she’s getting a toehold in. “Besides, there’s not much to be said for pushing me up against the cold concrete wall and having your way with me.”

“I think I can be credited with a little more romance than that, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie answers. “I might lay you out on this very bench, for starters. Lift up the edge of those scrubs you’re wearing. Drawstring trousers make for easy access.” She moves her hand against Serena’s thigh, can feel the warmth of her through the thin fabric. She squeezes ever so slightly, feels Serena start against her.

“This bench would be murder on both our backs. Perhaps you can think of some other location?” Serena taps her foot against Bernie’s, her voice warm like the coffee she’s holding.

“There’s that ambulance sitting over there. That has a bed. Bit of a step up from the bench or the wall, I suppose,” Bernie says. It’s been parked there for a while, she doesn’t know if the crew is inside, if it’s just out of commission for the moment, what’s happening with it.

“Sheltered from the wind, too,” Serena says, her voice threaded with a bit of a challenge, like she’s daring Bernie to take her over to the back of the hospital vehicle. As if the weather is on her side, a breeze gusts up, making Bernie’s hair blow across her face.

“And private. Hard to find in this hospital.” Bernie’s starting to think it might actually work, that she might just do it. She’s having a more difficult time finding a reason not to. “How much longer until you have to back upstairs?” she asks.

“Why? Trying to find out if it’s long enough for me to make you come in the back of an ambulance?” Bernie has to bite back a chuckle, but can’t quite shake the image of Serena’s head between her thighs, her legs splayed out across the cushioned bench.

“Mmm, I was thinking it would be an opportunity to challenge myself, see if I could get a new record in, make you shout my name out in less than five minutes.” There’s no contest, they don’t take turns, keep score, they don’t keep track, all Bernie knows is that Serena has given her more orgasms than she ever had with Marcus.

“You know I don’t shout, Berenice. It isn’t dignified,” Serena says, as though it wasn’t just last night she was moaning out Bernie’s name, biting down on her own hand to stifle the noise.

Bernie just smirks, leans in close to Serena, sniffs her, kisses her jaw, noses against her hair. “Wanna bet?”

Serena’s face flushes, and a smile spreads across her cheeks, gamine and playful. She slants a look at Bernie before whispering, “Last one in the ambulance is a rotten egg.” She’s already standing before Bernie can react, moving quickly. But Bernie’s long legs have always served her well, and she overtakes Serena, throws open the back doors, grateful they’re unlocked. The gurney is gone from the back, so they do settle themselves on the bench, a frantic move, their hands already clutching at each other.

Neither of them are really thinking, they’re just acting. She feels insatiable with Serena, wants her all the time, any way she can get her. Serena’s hands are nimble, fussing with the tie on her scrubs, pushing them down her hips, taking her knickers with them. Bernie subsides, lets Serena take the lead, more than happy to watch her work in any circumstance.

Serena never seemed to feel self-conscious about having sex with a woman, not even the first time. She took to the task like a fish to water, never faltering, always eager to please, always more than competent. Bernie thinks it must be some sort of inherent gene that Serena has, the ability to have success in all that she tries. Bernie can only be grateful that she’s the recipient of this wonderful woman’s affection as Serena settles between Bernie’s thighs, her hands at Bernie’s hips, a glint in her eye.

When Serena’s teeth scrape against the soft skin of her inner thigh, when she gives just the smallest nip, follows it with a more purposeful bite, Bernie knows she’ll have a purple bruise there, knows Serena will lave it with kisses when they get home. Her tongue is as skilled in this as it is in everything else she does.

She admitted, at first, to just doing the alphabet, to spelling out words and phrases, but now she’s found the rhythm Bernie likes, the places that she wants to be touched. She savors the wetness between Bernie’s legs, has said she could happily drown in it. Sometimes Bernie feels like water dish and Serena is a thirsty cat, lapping at her, sucking at her.

There’s an efficiency to Serena’s actions, a quickness. Her fingers join her tongue, a double assault on Bernie’s senses, her thumb working alongside her mouth, and Bernie’s eyes roll back in her head. She can’t stop the moan that creeps past her lips, just clutches at Serena’s shoulder, her other hand caressing Serena’s head, touseling her hair.

When she comes, it’s with a sharp shout, fast, like a snapping twig. She can see the self-satisfied smile on Serena’s face, her lipstick smeared and messy, her hair a tangle. “Looks like you did have enough time, Ms. Campbell,” Bernie says, reaching for her scrubs.

“Did you ever doubt me?” she asks, rubbing at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Never,” Bernie answers. “Not once.”

 

**three.**

Serena grimaces at the list of entrees, thinks it’s all over-priced for the size of the dishes she can see being served around them. She looks over the top of the fancy leather-bound menu at Bernie, sees a slight frown wrinkling her brow. “How did you hear about this place again?” she asks, her voice a low hiss.

“Guy Self was talking about how he couldn’t get a reservation here,” Bernie answers and Serena has to hide a smile. “I told him that you and I were having dinner together and it was worth all the strings I pulled just to see how red his face got.”

“I do always like to have things to rub in his face,” Serena says primly, looking back down at the menu.

The food doesn’t live up to the prices, not even the cheese platter they order in place of dessert. Only their wine selection is anything worth mentioning, though Serena knows she’ll lord the whole meal over Guy for at least a month, longer if she can manage it. When the bill comes, she feels a childish urge to dine and dash. Instead, she leans in, looks at Bernie carefully. “I’d like to have something to remember this evening by, to make this outing worth it.”

“Oh? What did you have in mind?” Bernie delicately wipes at the corner of her mouth with the black napkin, looks at the invisible specks and studiously doesn’t look at Serena, as if she already knows where this is headed.

Serena slips her credit card into the leather case holding the bill. “I’m going to go to the washroom. Perhaps you might come up with an idea while I’m away.” Her voice is thick, laden with meaning as she stands from the table, drops her napkin onto her chair, pointedly pushes it back in, brushing the white tablecloth.

“Five minutes,” she says, a certain amount of steel creeping into her voice, the sternness helping her hide the tremble in her heart, the little ounce of fear at being caught that is also threading through her.

Bernie nods with a playful seriousness, her lips pressed tight together, and Serena doesn’t look back as she heads to the washroom.

She feels a sense of relief when she sees there’s no attendant, thought it might be a posh enough place to have a woman standing with towels or mints. But there’s nothing, just a small divan, plush and pink, and a lock on the door. She looks at herself in the mirror, her rouged cheeks, her red lips, her low neckline. She thinks that she’s changed, that there was a time when she could never have imagined doing something like this. Bernie’s made her braver, made her more foolhardy too.

There’s a knock at the door and Serena opens it, relieved to see Bernie’s face on the other side. She turns the lock as Bernie steps in, feels Bernie at her back before she can even turn around. Bernie’s hands are on her waist, against the smooth material of her dress, her fingers wrinkling the fabric, pulling it up as she moves her hands, gathering it together in her fists. “You look lovely tonight,” she says in Serena’s ear, her voice quiet, and Serena recognizes it as the voice she uses when she’s singularly focused on the task at hand, focused almost to the point of distraction.

Serena already feels like her veins are on fire, like there might be explosions from her fingertips, her skin sensitive, the rasp of fabric against her bare thighs heightening the feeling. Bernie’s hands are skillful, sure, and Serena never gets tired of the way Bernie makes her feel. Her fingers toy with the lace of her knickers, picked especially with Bernie in mind, though Serena had rather imagined she’d be getting undressed in their bed, not in the heavily air-conditioned ladies’ room at a posh restaurant.

Bernie wordlessly urges Serena in an awkward walk to the divan, turning Serena in her arms as she gently pushes Serena into a sitting position. Bernie bends down, fitting nicely between Serena’s legs, her knees cushioned slightly on the small rug in front of the sofa. She pushes at Serena’s skirt, bunches it up at her hips, drags her fingers against the smooth skin newly bared, leaning in to place a gentle kiss against her thigh.

Serena leans her head against the wall, looks up at the ceiling, painted a ridiculous rose color that matches the decor, wonders why all washrooms in fancy places insist on some sort of gendered design scheme. She wonders if there’s a couch in the men’s room, perhaps dark and leather, and then she’s not wondering anything at all because Bernie’s mouth is hot and warm against her lace pants and she can feel her tongue through the material.

Her hands grip the edge of the divan, her knuckles white, as much in preparation as it is in arousal. Bernie pulls at her knickers, pushes them aside, clearly frustrated she didn’t think to take them off Serena first. There’s a moment of awkward acrobatics as Bernie pulls the fabric as far as it’ll go, jostles Serena’s leg around, slides her foot through one leghole, leaving her high heels on the floor.

“Careful, Bernie, I’m not Amy Tinkler,” Serena says with a grunt, feeling the strain in her thighs. Her pants come off the other leg more easily and she gasps slightly at the cool rush of air that hits her warm center.

Bernie tosses aside the piece of fabric in her hand and Serena doesn’t even see where it falls, closes her eyes as Bernie leans in, her breath against Serena’s thighs, her tongue just touching her, the briefest of taps, a mere hint of what’s to come.

She begins a slow assault on Serena’s senses, a hand on Serena’s breast, palming her through the layers of fabric, feeling the nipple even through it all. Her other hand is squeezing Serena’s thigh, her nails just digging into her skin and Serena can picture the perfect crescents left behind from the surgeon’s nails so carefully trimmed.

Bernie licks her without warning, a strong, forceful tonguing that makes Serena’s back arch at the sensation. And then she toys with Serena’s clit, light touches, just the slightest darting out, whetting her appetite and pulling away before she can fully be sated. Serena’s hand comes to rest in Bernie’s hair, her other still holding tight to the edge of the sofa. She can feel the strands tickling her thighs, and she bites her lip because everything, _everything_ feels so good, all the individual bits adding up to a train of arousal that is pulling into the station.

Finally Bernie places her mouth completely, fully, against Serena, her tongue inside of Serena, her lips around her, and she thinks she can see stars behind her eyelids, comets shooting across her vision. Bernie laps at her, nibbles, bites, nothing certain, nothing seemingly planned, except the surety that Serena will come, and come hard.

Her fingers fist in Bernie’s hair when she does, her teeth sharp against her lip as she holds back the moan threatening to escape. Bernie leans back on her heels and Serena can feel her gaze even before she opens her eyes. “Do you think we can leave a review about the bathroom?” she asks as she leans forward to taste herself on Bernie’s lips.

“I doubt Guy Self would have the same experience,” Bernie answers, her breath mingling with Serena’s. “I wouldn’t want to raise people’s hopes about the excellence of their facilities here.” Her soft chuckle warms Serena’s cheeks and she kisses Bernie once more.

“Mmm, just our secret then,” she says as she stands, holding out a hand to pull Bernie up.

It’s only when they’re out the door, heading to the car, that Serena realizes they’ve left her knickers on the floor inside.

 

**four.**

They lose a patient, and then another, and then another, like dominos falling. Serena hides herself in the chapel, tucked away, where nobody goes. She’s sitting there when Bernie finds her, hands clasped in her lap, her face shuttered and dark. Bernie slides into the pew, her scrubs whispering against the burnished wood. Serena’s still wearing the pale blue, never changed back into her regular clothes. The dark and light fabric together make Bernie’s heart skip a beat as her thigh presses against Serena’s.

Bernie feels something overtake her, an invisible hand pushing her to make this right, to make Serena feel better, whatever it takes. She moves in closer to Serena, her lips just below Serena’s earlobe, her breath hot as it rebounds back onto her own cheeks. Her hand slips under the elastic waist of the scrubs, finds the silk of Serena’s knickers, and Serena isn’t stopping her, only the slight flush of pink on her cheeks a sign that something out of the ordinary is happening.

Bernie kisses Serena, on the soft skin where her hair fades away, the hint of grey just visible at the roots. She pushes Serena, urges her backward, laying her out on the pew, crouching beside her on the velvet cushion of the kneeler, the stiffness of her knees the last thing on her mind as Serena’s hand scrabbles for purchase, grips the rail that holds the prayer books, the hymnals.

It's too blasphemous to do this closer to the altar, closer to where the figure of Christ looks down with a beatific smile, and Bernie feels guilt shoot through her all the same, but the smell of Serena is more than she can resist, and she gives into temptation. _Lord make me good, but not just yet_ she thinks, arching over Serena's prone form, licking her cunt, already sopping.

Bernie keeps at it, keeps lapping at Serena, only stopping when a loud clatter halts her movements, puts her on edge.

"It was me, Bernie, I just dropped a BCP," Serena says, her body shaking with laughter, with disbelief that they're doing this

Bernie rests her head against Serena's stomach, the softness of it calming her beating heart.

And when she's calmed enough, she slides her fingers into Serena, keeps them going while she kisses a trail back up to Serena's mouth.

"Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death," she whispers to Serena, her voice sibilant, low, her fingers unceasing in their movement, her lips just brushing against Serena's cheek. Serena grunts slightly, sucks in her breath, and Bernie continues, "I will fear no evil: for thou art with me." As she speaks, her thumb begins to toy with Serena's clit, so sensitive, so ready, and Serena spasms, claps a hand over her own mouth to stop noise from escaping.

"Thy rod," Bernie goes on, thrusting hard on the word, punctuating it, "and thy staff." Each movement makes Serena quake and Bernie revels in it, in this hedonistic, heathen display. "they comfort me."

She kisses Serena, the angle strange, it's sloppy and wet, but she slides her tongue into Serena's mouth, licks her in time to the beat of her fingers.

"My cup runneth over," she whispers when she pulls away, and lets Serena come.

 

**five.**

It was Elinor’s idea to have a family dinner, to bring all parties together for a night of forced congeniality. To add insult to injury, she suggests that they all come together at Edward’s house. At what was Edward’s _and Serena’s_ house. Serena doesn’t particularly miss it, not really. She was happy enough for Edward to buy her out, to move on to a new place without memories of him on every surface, in every room, but that doesn’t mean she wants to go back, doesn’t mean she’s eager to spend time in a place where everything once seemed too hard, too difficult, too much.

However, when Elinor is the one to make the suggestion, the first move, Serena can do nothing but comply, wants to encourage this behavior, wants to spend time with her daughter on her own terms, doesn’t want to force anything. She’s become skittish, a bit, where Elinor is concerned, doesn’t want to overstep, doesn’t want to have the dependent and difficult relationship that existed between Adrienne and herself. So she waits for Elinor to reach out, frets over how long she should wait to respond, never wants to seem overeager. Bernie tells her it’s like she’s dating Elinor, like she’s a boy Serena’s got a crush on.

“Boy?” Serena asks, eyebrow raised and Bernie laughs.

“Or girl. My mistake.”

So they go over to Edward’s, armed with a bottle of red and a bottle of white - somehow Serena feels certain that Liberty prefers white wine - and they stand on the front step, Bernie slightly behind Serena, a strong presence at her back.

The door opens, Liberty gushing at them before Serena can even fully react. They’re both pulled into hugs and Serena is only able to tolerate it with a smile because of the pained look on Bernie’s face and the awkward way her arms hang at her sides.

Elinor is waiting with Edward, smiles brightly at her mother, a little less so at Bernie. There’s a painful sort of coming-around to the idea, but it gets better every day. Serena thinks Elinor feels a certain sense of being displaced, worried that she’s not important enough anymore, now that Serena’s found this new person, this new thing. Serena doesn’t know how to tell her that no matter what changes, being a mother will always run through her core.

“I can take Bernie on the tour,” Serena offers, “show her the important bits, maybe even that door where we marked off Ellie’s height, and we can all coo about how little you once were.” Elinor just rolls her eyes as Serena tangles her fingers with Bernie’s, leads her up the stairs, towards the room she and Edward once shared.

When Serena was with Edward, things seemed like a checklist, counting down the days until the next thing happened. With Bernie, Serena feels like she has years ahead of her, a long and winding journey with no predetermined stops. She squeezes Bernie’s hand, never quite capable of putting into words how important Bernie is to her.

“Bathroom’s just there,” she says, pointing to the room that couldn’t possibly be anything but a bathroom, the white tile visible under the partially-closed door.

The door to Elinor’s room is firmly closed and Serena doesn’t bother showing the inside of it to Bernie, knows it’ll be a mess of clothes and her bed will be unmade. Instead, they go to the end of the hall and Serena pushes open the door, a feeling at once intimately familiar and completely foreign, something from another life.

The bed is different, more modern. Serena thinks that’s Liberty’s influence, that she swallowed an IKEA catalog, spewed it all over the house. There’s no headboard, just simple, Scandinavian design. “They’ve got nothing to grab onto,” Bernie whispers in Serena’s ear, apparently thinking along the same lines.

“You know, I’m not sure I ever really enjoyed sex in this bedroom. Edward was always best when we were on holiday, or during a frantic clinch during a shift when we were F1s,” Serena muses. She moves away from Bernie, towards the closet in the corner, still painted the light gray color, and she can picture the pencil markings without even looking.

But Bernie has other ideas, doesn’t let their hands drop, instead pulls Serena back, tucks her right up against her, and kisses her, deep, her tongue sliding into Serena’s mouth. “Seems a pity to waste this opportunity,” Bernie says when she pulls back, and Serena can only look at her with a question on her face. “You, me. This bedroom. About time you enjoyed yourself here,” Bernie continues, her hands coming up to frame Serena’s face, her thumbs gently rubbing her cheeks.

It _does_ seem a pity, Serena thinks as she kisses Bernie again. She knows Bernie can make her come faster than Edward ever did, knows they can be quick and quiet, finds a perverse pleasure in the idea of it all. Bernie backs them toward the bed, their lips joined, her hands moving to Serena’s waist, helping to ease her onto the bed.

“No time really for foreplay,” she mutters against Serena’s mouth. In answer, Serena unbuttons the top of Bernie’s denims, slides the zipper down facilely, cups Bernie knickers, her finger toying with her through the thin material.

“Not always something we need,” she says, her breath hot against Bernie’s mouth, and she can feel the smirk on Bernie’s lips. Her hand knocks against Serena’s as she slips her hand past the waistband of Serena’s trousers, their arms next to each other, flexed and focused, and Serena just looks into Bernie’s dark eyes as she works her fingers steadily, so familiar with the motion Bernie loves, the steady pulse that makes her breath come in pants.

Bernie, for her part, moves her palm slowly against Serena’s skin, her fingers never finding a sure rhythm, always surprising her with a rough touch to the clit here, with a darting push inside there. Serena likes the uncertainty, with never knowing quite what’s coming next. The anticipation makes her as excited as anything else, as keyed up.

Her other hand fists in the quilt, in the duvet she’s sure Liberty picked out. She scrabbles at the fabric, presses her lips to Bernie’s, hides her moans in their kisses, clenches her eyes shut when she comes. Bernie follows soon after, a brief, beautiful moment of tension throughout her body before she sags against Serena, lets her forehead rest on Serena’s shoulder.

“Better than Edward?” she asks when she’s caught her breath.

“Always,” Serena says easily, a truth she’s never had to second-guess.

They clean themselves up quickly and Serena thinks she must _smell_ of Bernie, of sex. She brushes wrinkles from the duvet, makes it smooth once more. “I suppose we might need to actually look at the height markings.”

“Mmm, wouldn’t want to get caught out,” Bernie answers with a smile and opens the closet door, crouching down to get a look. Serena remembers Elinor racing into the room every time she thought she’d had a growth spurt, demanding to be measured, demanding to have a notation made. Serena kept a pencil in her bedside table just for that reason. There are good memories in this house too, she thinks, a lump lodged in her throat.

Bernie stands and Serena can see her knees are stiff. “All right there, old lady?” she asks, smirking and Bernie bats at her shoulder.

“I think we just proved we can keep up with the young kids, don’t you?” Bernie’s face is beautiful and Serena can only nod. “Maybe we can ask Liberty how long it takes Edward to get it up.”

“Oh don’t you dare,” Serena scolds with false sternness. “I’m not sure Elinor would survive the conversation! Not to mention that I don’t need those images in my head, thank you very much.”

Bernie’s saved from answering by the bellowing of Serena’s daughter, in a voice so like her own. “Did you get lost up there, Mum? Food’s ready!”

“We’ll just have to come up with something else for dinner conversation, won’t we?” Bernie asks, smiling sweetly, and leads the way downstairs.


	35. after the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _prompt: can we have a tear-jerker? Like S or B dying... their final words to one another._
> 
> a clear warning that this chapter has a major character death in it.
> 
> title from "the love song of j. alfred prufrock"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last of the prompt fics. thank you all for reading, for prompting, for commenting.

Bernie doesn’t like to admit it, doesn’t want to admit it, but she’s getting old. Serena’s getting old. They’re both wrinkled and a bit stooped, and Bernie’s once famous hands are now knobbly and arthritic. Serena, the erstwhile CEO, striding around in heels and barking orders, has a bum hip and a knee that sticks and mostly wears shoes with a Velcro clasp, something she complains about wryly, an eyebrow arched. 

“What would Guy Self say?” she asks, and Bernie laughs, though it’s tinged with sadness because Guy Self isn’t around any longer to make any sort of snide remarks. She doesn’t like to think of how many people they’ve outlived, makes herself focus on the certain joy she always feels when she thinks about the fact that she’s living with Serena, that they’re with each other, till the end. 

An end which isn’t as far off as one might hope. Serena visits Holby, sees a doctor, and then another, and then another. She waves off explanations, platitudes, says she knows enough, has seen enough. She doesn’t really tell Bernie anything, and Bernie doesn’t ask. They both know what some things look like, what some things mean.

“I’m just wearing out,” Serena says, a dry chuckle, her sense of humor ever present, the sharp spark that never required honing. “Too many late nights with you, Ms. Wolfe.”

Bernie laughs too, just presses her cheek to the top of Serena’s head, holds her close, like she always does. “Most of those were your fault, if I recall.” She feels the familiar warmth suffuse her body, like it always did, like it always does, at the thought of Serena’s able fingers and her nimble tongue.

“We’ve had quite a life, Bernie,” Serena says, sagging against her partner, and Bernie enjoys the warm weight of her, lighter now than it might have been even a few years ago, age taking pounds and adding wrinkles. “Remember the desert?”

She always likes to reminisce about their time in Africa, the time, she says, when she was bold and brave and selfish. Bernie likes to tell her that it’s hardly selfish running a refugee camp with minimal resources and even less support, but Serena waves it off. “Dadaab did more for me than I did for it.” And maybe it’s true, maybe it changed her in some fundamental way. She came back to Holby like a new person. 

“Which part? The sand? Or the other sand? Or the cactuses?” Bernie has her role to play in this conversation too, her friendly barbs that make Serena bat at her with affection. 

“Remember the sun rising over the tents, how the night sky would just brighten up in moments? Remember how you could see the stars? Really see them?” Serena liked to stand outside at night, her head tilted back, taking in the universe. Bernie would stand with her sometimes, or would watch her through the flap of the tent, the beautiful curve of her neck awash in silvery light, her eyes catching every star. 

Serena yawns against Bernie, muffling the sound against her jumper. “Let’s rest,” Bernie says, easing herself up, helping Serena to lay against the overstuffed cushions of the sofa. There’s a blanket on the back, bright and patterned, bought at the markets in Nairobi. Serena takes fastidious care of it, says she wants it to last forever, says that Jason should have it when they’re gone. Bernie has promised to see to it. 

She pulls the blanket down, tucks it in around Serena, the pinks and purples so vibrant against Serena’s skin. Bernie grasps Serena’s hand, sits just on the edge of the sofa, can feel the gentle warmth of Serena against her thigh.

Serena’s head is pillowed on the cushions, her face sleepy, tired, but she looks up at Bernie with love in her eyes, squeezes their joined hands, pulls them to her mouth, kisses them, her lips papery, her breath soft. “Remember your first day at Holby?” She’s reminiscing like it’s the end and Bernie almost can’t bear it.

“Brought in on a stretcher, if I recall,” she says, smiling, knows that’s not the day Serena means. 

“Remember the day we met?” Serena amends, a benevolent smile on her lips and Bernie laughs softly, reaches a finger out to just touch Serena’s cheek. 

“Engine growling or whining?” she asks, leans down so their foreheads meet. She replays that day in her mind so often, tries to remember what she felt when she first laid eyes on Serena Campbell, the pinging of her heart recognizing something in another human. 

“You do remember,” Serena says, her voice even sleepier, her eyes drifting closed. Bernie stops herself from saying “Of course,” because she will never forget, will hold every moment in her heart forever, has to look away because she doesn’t want Serena to see the look of stricken emotion on her face.

She feels Serena squeeze her hand once more, looks back at her, eyes open again. She opens her mouth, a rasp coming out, hoarse, distant, like she’s already left, like she’s calling back to Bernie. “Was it worth it, my darling?” 

“Was what worth it?” Bernie can feel the emotions clogging her throat, can feel the sharp sting of tears behind her eyelids and she blinks them away, won’t wipe at them because that would require letting Serena’s hands drop from her grasp and she’s not doing that, not yet. 

“Everything.” Even in this, even with her hair limp and grey, never that stark white she’d hoped for, even with her hands, wrinkled and enfeebled, Serena’s eyes still dance, that warm brown, never dimmed by age or time, catching the light in the room, reflecting it back ten thousandfold.

“Yes. Oh, god yes.” Bernie says these words so earnestly, so intently, her voice choked with grief, with love, her knobby fingers gripping Serena’s tightly, maybe too tightly, but she’s scared to let go. 

“Good,” Serena says, a wide smile creasing her cheeks, making the wrinkles deeper, those beautiful parentheses around her lips. “Good.” She pats at Bernie’s hand, once, twice, and then Bernie feels her palm go slack, sees the tell-tale signs of life leaving a person, sees those eyes, so bright just moments ago, go pale, lipid. 

She feels a sob wrack through her body, a noise tearing from her that she’s never quite heard before, and holds herself, wraps her arms tightly around her waist as if to keep herself from shattering. She slides to the floor and feels lonely, so lonely, and she doesn’t know what will fix it. 

Bernie sits there for a long time, isn’t quite sure how long, but her legs go stiff, her foot falls asleep. Eventually she levers herself up, slants her eyes away from the sofa, tries to remember where she’s left her phone. The same place as her reading glasses, no doubt. 

She limps upstairs, the feeling prickling its way back into her appendages, her steps halting, her brain foggy. There’s her phone, blinking, sitting on her bedside, the lenses from her glasses refracting the light slightly from where they sit atop it. Sitting on the edge of the bed, she slides her thumb across the screen, sees a missed text message. From Serena. 

“Come downstairs. There’s coffee. xx”

It was sent at seven in the morning, when Bernie was showering. She didn’t even look at her phone before coming into the kitchen and wrapping her hands around a warm mug, before sitting next to Serena and looking through the morning paper together, bending their heads over the crossword. 

She stops herself from thinking “That was the last time we’ll do that,” from being angry at herself for not savoring every moment, for acting like she had all the time in the world. She has to stop herself so she doesn’t fall apart, so the sob that’s just lurking at the base of her throat, the sob she thinks has taken up permanent residence along her esophagus, doesn’t erupt.

There are things that have to be done, knows that she’s the one to do those things. She will have to tell people, let them know. She’ll have to say the words so many times, will have to hear the pitying condolences, will have to extend her sympathy right back, all the while thinking no one’s lost as much as she. Bernie does not, in this moment, want to have to care for others; she’s already feeling brittle, fragile, like she might collapse in on herself if she expends energy on anything besides keeping herself standing.

She calls Charlotte first, her youngest, herself in miniature. Charlotte answers on the third ring, and Bernie knows her daughter can hear the wobble in her voice from the first syllable. “What is it?” Charlotte asks, careful, wary. She’s been through her mother’s big announcements before, Bernie thinks. 

She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to phrase it. “Serena…” she starts and can’t bring herself to finish the sentence, unwilling to say the words aloud for the first time.

“Did she leave you? After thirty-some years?” Bernie warbles a laugh, because it’s ironic, because Serena _did_ leave her, just not in the way Charlotte’s asking. 

“Mum.” Charlotte’s voice is serious. “What is it.” It’s not a question now, but a demand and Bernie tries to wrangle herself, to pull everything back inside, like jumbled wires stuffed in a drawer so no one can seen the mess. 

“It’s Serena,” is all she can say, two simple words, and her voice breaks on the ‘a,’ a crack in her shaky facade. 

It’s enough, though, and Charlotte says she’ll call Cam, she’ll call Jason, and Bernie feels some of the weight lift from her heart, a slight easing, just a grain of sand from a beach being taken away, but it’s _something_ and Bernie is grateful for it.

She calls Edward, knows it’s what Serena would want, the two people in her life that she chose to love above all others. Bernie just hopes she’s given Serena a better life, a better world, than Edward ever did. He sounds old on the phone, creaky, and Bernie shouldn’t be surprised but she is. She can hear him sit down with a _thump_ at the news, just stands in the middle of her bedroom in silence, doesn’t want to comfort Edward, doesn’t know how. “I thought you should know,” she says finally, when the silence has stretched long enough that she feels uncomfortable, even in her numbed state.

“Thank you,” he says. “I know what it’s like to lose her, Bernie, I’m -”

“You don’t,” Bernie says, and her voice is thick and sounds foreign to her own ears. “You don’t have the faintest idea.” She touches the red button on her phone and ends the call, finds a perverse pleasure in leaving him stymied. She’s not going to be the one to listen to him. 

Time doesn’t seem to matter in the coming weeks. Bernie couldn’t say whether a minute’s gone by or a week. She feels like the person standing still in a busy crowd, buffeted on all sides by people moving on with their lives, people doing things. She stands in the market, staring at boxes of pasta for long enough that a salesperson cautiously asks if she’s all right. Her red-rimmed eyes and minute, controlled shake of the head send him scurrying away and she sets the penne back on the shelf.

She sleeps in the guest room, doesn’t want to be in the bedroom without Serena, only goes in to get to the closet, when she’s run out of clothes from the washer. She can see a film of dust on the bedside tables, already feels as if she’s living in someone else’s house, someone else’s life, as if everything is just happening to her and she can do nothing but watch.

There’s a funeral, and she gives a eulogy. Talks about how strong Serena was, how brave, how all the good things in her life came from Serena. She doesn’t cry, not even when Serena’s ashes are interred, thinks maybe her tears have dried up, maybe she’s spent them all. 

She thinks that until she finds a loose sock in the wash, one of Serena’s, stuck to her trousers with static, the last piece of Serena’s clothing she’ll ever clean, and finds herself standing in the middle of the laundry room holding a damp sock and sobbing, thinks she cries enough that she could’ve done a whole second load of washing. Cries enough that she feels hollowed out when she’s done, like someone’s just come down and scooped her out with a melon baller, leaving behind just a shell.

Charlotte stays with Bernie, shares the bed with her, their blonde heads leaving identical imprints on the pillows, her eyes filled with caution at every step, with worry and care, and Bernie thinks she’ll go mad from the concern. “I’m as fine as I can be,” is what she tells everyone, what she tells Charlotte, when they ask.

She thinks of her last conversation with Serena, of the life they shared, one more full, possibly more meaningful, than the life she had before. She spends so much of her time feeling as though she’s walking underwater, moving slowly, but in the moments when she resurfaces, when she feels like she’s inhaling real air again, in those moments, she thinks about Serena asking if it was worth it. 

She wonders, a little, if it was. If being with Serena, of building a life with her, of all those wonderful moments stacked on top of each other, joy overflowing, is worth what she’s feeling now. She feels cold at the thought, like she’s some other person, calculating, shrewd, disconnected from herself. 

“It was worth it,” she reminds herself. “It was worth it,” she says aloud in her empty house. “It was worth it,” she tells Charlotte. 

“It was worth it,” she whispers to herself at night, curled up alone in bed, and vows to be better than she’s being. As she closes her eyes, as sleep overtakes her, she thinks she can almost hear Serena, her voice, warm and comforting, saying, “Good. Good.”


End file.
